


Eclipsed

by icemakestars



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Emotional Abuse, Healing, Hospitals, It Gets Better, Kissing, Love Confession, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Rape, Self-help, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, almost self arm, because this may not help, eventual stingue, fake relationships, mild agoraphobia, okay don't read it if you're sad, request, this is sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-31 11:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3977131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icemakestars/pseuds/icemakestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sting is the sun. He is the stars in the sky and the reason behind Rogue's smile. But the sun is not shining and the light is fading, and Rogue feels as though he owes it to his best friend to find out the reason why. </p><p>Blood is thicker than water, but the secrets Sting is protecting run just as deep. How can he tell Rogue something he can hardly admit to himself?</p><p>Both boys love and cry in equal measures, but how will they get through the obstacles that seem adamant to block their path? The same way Sting and Rogue do everything: together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: There's a Story at the Bottom of this Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first chaptered fic in a while, and I might actually finish this one *shocked gasps*.
> 
> This was requested on Tumber by the lovely fayee_anderson... all of the angst is on her.
> 
> ***WARNINGS***  
> This story contains rape, non-con, physical and emotional abuse, yaoi and probably more. This is probably trigger material, so I wouldn't want to make anyone feel bad unnecessarily. 
> 
> Also, follow me on Tumblr: ice-bringer

Sting lifted the glass to his lips and felt the alcohol kiss bittersweet promises in his mouth, over his tongue and down his throat. The booze tasted more bitter than usual, but Sting guessed that was more himself than the content of the bottle; his negative attitude and dire outlook on life turned everything sour.

No matter how hard he tried, Sting always felt like a stain in his own body. He was never present in his skin, and despite going through the motions of living he never truly felt _alive._ Not anymore. Sting couldn't even touch his own flesh without feeling sordid and wrong. Everything he did was a shadow of what had been done to him, and the fact that his body was no longer his own left him feeling inapt. All that he had been through had left blemishes and smears on his soul that Sting wasn't sure even alcohol could remove. That didn't mean he wasn't about to try, of course.

He remembered the touch of _that man_ , fingers jagged and rough, like pinpricks over his skin. Every time it happened the needles cut a little deeper, and Sting felt his happiness and hope bleed out as if it were blood. As if it were as real as the alcohol flowing through his veins and the feeling of calloused hands yanking his hair and touching his body in ways that made him physically sick.

This wasn't what he wanted, wasn’t the life he chose when he joined Sabertooth, but it's what he got. It's been his reality- an unspeakable nightmare that happens exclusively when he's awake- for the best part of four years, and Sting had accepted It. He was weak, he could not fight Jiemma off. This would make him stronger.

He deserved it. He deserved it for killing his parent dragon, Weisslogia. He deserved it for not treating his teammates like they should be treated, for being too weak to fight back.

He was pathetic. That's what he told himself every time he caught a glance at the blotchy, distant person who he knew was himself, but was everything he feared to be, in the mirror. The eyes were glazed over and distraught. The lips were swollen from unwanted kisses, but red from teeth which bite harder than anxiety ever could. And Sting hears the words spoken to him in a seductively destructive whisper every time he's bent over and taken, with tears pooling in his eyes and a scream building in his throat. He did not make a sound. Could not, _would not_ , for the sake of his own pride. The first thing he learnt about war was to never let the enemy know your weakness, to gather information on your fears. And Sting was definitely afraid. He felt the cowardice coil in his stomach and ball in his fists as he swallowed back whimper after whimper in every encounter.

The door of his bedroom creaked open, and the broad figure he had grown far too familiar with stood entirely encased in light, like an angel. The irony of it made Sting's stomach blanch. His throat tightened up and hands went slack where they were previously balled into fists. The tall stature stopped all the light from entering the room, and caused shadows to dance on the wooden panels, their dark tendrils reaching out for Sting. When the door was softly closed, all of the light left the room, and the shadows on the floor proved far more fleeting than the ones which plagued Sting's soul.

Sting shut his eyes and let himself fall back on the bed. If he could just pretend it wasn't happening for long enough, eventually it would be over and he would be left alone with rumbled sheets and an aching body and nothing but a wish that he would never have to wake up again. That he would never again in his life have to face Jiemma in the guild and pretend he was okay.

_That he would never have to live._

Strong, meaty hands wrapped themselves around his thighs and forced them apart, and Sting felt the bile rise in his mouth. If he shouted for help, he would be killed. If he struggled, his life would end immediately. Sometimes, it didn't feel like such a bad idea; he was already dead on the inside, anyway.


	2. Don't Get Too Close, it's Dark Inside

The moon had barely left the sky when Sting roused the next morning. Pale blue was bleeding a dramatic orange, and hints of sunlight breathed hope of a new day into Sting's tear-swollen eyes. He was sore, aching in fact, but it was a pain he was used to. He was torn slightly in areas which were far too intimate to name, and his skin felt like it was covered in grime when he knew there was nothing there, and he had some marks on his wrists and hips that would no doubt bruise later, but besides that the damage wasn't visible. That's what worried Sting the most; it was the scars you couldn't see which resonated the loudest.

He winced as he sluggishly ambled through his room, grabbing clothes which didn't smell like stale sweat and crisp blood and _him_ , and tossing them carelessly on the cool slats of his bathroom floor. He stripped himself from the wrinkled clothes which were hanging from his body, and turned his shower onto its highest setting. The water ran cold- it always did first thing in the morning. But as soon as the frozen tears of the shower cried calmness onto the taunt ridges of his back, ridding him of the dull throb of anguish and feral purrs of anxiety, Sting knew that a nice cold shower was everything he needed to help him readjust to the 'real world'.

Sometimes, that was especially hard for Sting. To just... go about his business as though everything was okay, as though he didn't cry himself to sleep almost every night because he just hated himself that much. He didn't know how to do it. Sting didn't understand how people could have sex with 'no strings attached', because he was roped and bound. His depression tied him down, and his anxiety trapped him. And Jiemma, he controlled those strings. Sting was nothing more than a puppet, used and discarded without even a pause to ponder his wellbeing. Sometimes, he wondered if he would ever be more than a toy. But then his bedroom door opened and he was pinned to the bed by fear, and he knew the answer with far too much clarity.

Pushing limp, blond strands of hair from his eyes, Sting leant his forehead against the pale, white flesh of the bathroom wall and let the freezing water embrace him. And he just stood there. It was early, only around 6am, so he had no reason to rush; nobody would be at the guild yet. Without the hot water cooling to show the passage of time, Sting felt as though he was in his own little haven. Nobody could touch him in here, all by himself during the small hours of the morning. For a fraction of a second, Sting felt invincible.

But then Reality's poisoned talons clawed their way up his spine, making his back go rigid with the realisation that he had lulled himself into a pretence of protection. That he could be harmed, maimed, and abused. The limp in his step and tremor of his body was proof enough of that. With a shallow sigh and a quick blink to shatter the curtain of tears which threatened to fall, Sting turned the shower off and stepped back into the real world.

_______________________________

It was a slow day in the Sabertooth guildhall. There were few requests on the board, and the square pieces of paper than were pinned to the weathered wood were uninteresting and bland. Easy money, in Sting's opinion. Small groups of people sat around and talked quietly, and Sting realised there were only three reasons why a person ever came into this guild: for a new job, to have a meeting with a fellow teammate or to get drunk. It was barely into the afternoon, but the blond wizard was dangerously close to the latter option.

Nobody in Sabertooth communicated, and Sting knew that was the reason that they didn't have the same comradery he saw in other guilds. They never talked outside of their usual groups, and most wizards opted to take missions alone. The weaker members of the guild never interacted with the stronger members, and the elite five only ever spoke to each other. And even that was out of necessity. But that was just how it was, how it had always been, and Sting had long ago accepted it. He knew that their situation made Rogue feel uneasy, but the shadow dragon was surprisingly shy for somebody with that much power; he would never be the first one to make a change.

Sting sipped his drink, and with hooded eyes, idly scanned the dusty guildhall. Most of the faces he recognised, but with a sickening jolt he realised that he had no title to accompany the image. Some of these people had been in the guild for longer than he had, and yet he still didn’t know their name. He gulped down half of his drink.

"It's a little early to be on the hard stuff." Rogue slipped into the stool next to Sting, and eyed him wearily. Sting sighed. He knew where this was going before it had even begun.

"I just fancied a drink." Sting shrugged, brushing off the concerned glances from his best friend with a small smile. He swirled the liquid around the glass before placing it gently onto the wooden counter.

"Sting-kun can drink whenever he likes, because he's the strongest." Lector proudly declared, and Sting could hardly help the genuine smile which blossomed on his anxiety kissed lips.

"Fro thinks so too!" The frog piped up, and Sting felt honest regret that his cat companion could no longer live with him. The apartment he rented did not allow pets, and although he tried to explain to the landlord that Lector was a friend, a wizard of Sabertooth in the same way he was, they had denied his request at keeping his feline friend with him. He had wanted to move out, to own a shared apartment with Rogue and their two small friends, and be _happy_ for once. Some gentle reminders from Jiemma showed Sting that the kind of life he wanted, the carefree, effortless existence, was far beyond his reach.

As a silent apology he could never truly explain, Sting reached down and curled his hand around Lector's head, ruffled the soft brown ears and earning a playful grin from his teammate.

"A gentle drink, maybe,' Rogue relented, leaning forward and grasping the cool glass between his pale hands, 'but not this. This is... whiskey!" Rogue sniffed the drink and blanched. He could never stomach this stuff. Even the smell made him feel ill, and he dreaded to think of all the awful things this liquid was doing to Sting's insides.

Sting picked the glass up again and raised it in a silent toast of mockery to his best friend, who merely sighed as Sting let more of the toxic liquid pass down his throat. The pair sat in silence for a while, seconds ticking by but neither one noticing in the slightest. Both Exceeds chatted eagerly with each other, and Sting thought that the word to describe them was 'garrulous'. Not in a bad way, of course, simply that the cats did not have any weight on their tiny shoulders, so could pass through life noticing only the trivial issues and gripes. Sting was envious of that, sorely wished that ignorance was a gift he had at his disposal. But it was not.

As he raised hand to rest idly against his cheek, Sting's jacket slipped down past his wrist and revealed all of the bruising he had tried so hard to conceal. He cursed silently and tugged it back up again, praying with all of his strength that his observant best friend had been looking the other way, had been distracted by something, anything that wasn't the secret Sting was fighting so hard to keep. But still, he felt the cold grip of fear coil around his throat, because he knew for a fact that he was never that lucky.

"What are they?" Rogue's eyes narrowed, his voice sharper. He reached across to Sting and grabbed his wrist, pulling it forward so that he could scan it with more ease. Across Sting's pale flesh were a masterpiece of blues and blacks and reds, scarring and maiming the young man's skin.

Sting froze. He couldn't pass it off as damage done on a job; Rogue had accompanied him on every mission he had taken recently, he would know it was a lie Any other explanation would leave his team concerned, and he could not say anything even close to the truth. Sting realised that both Frosch and Lector were now sitting quietly, no doubt listening to the -tense exchange. He gulped.

Drinking alcohol for Sting was like standing on a cliff: peaceful and calming for the most part, but could lead him to dangerous places if he tripped. Now his panic had shoved him off the edge, and the murky waters of apprehension and fear were drowning him, filling his lungs and making it hard for him to breath. Sting's thoughts were incoherent babbles of possible excuses and plausible scenarios, none of them good.

"They're nothing." He averted his gaze, looking at anyone, _anything_ , that wasn't his best friend.

"Sting, tell me." The softness of Rogue's voice made Sting feel much worse.

"Honestly, it's fine."

The conversation was a quick-fire of concern and agitation, and Sting felt each syllable like a blow to his chest. His breathing became more erratic.

"Sting, if someone is hurting you-"

Why did Rogue have to use his name so much? It was a reminder that, no matter how hard he tried, Sting could never escape the broken chrysalis of a life he was forced to endure. He was Sting Eucliffe, a keen mage of Sabertooth, on a team with Rogue Cheney and their two Exceed companions. He was brave and strong and gallant.

He was the victim of constant abuse.

The anxiety in his body and the alcohol flowing through it caused the terror plaguing Sting's mind to snap, and his ' _fight or flight_ ' reflex was activated. Instead of choosing one, his body opted for both.

"Just leave me the fuck alone, Rogue." He yelled, standing up with so much force that the bar stool he had previously been perched on fell backwards with a resonating clatter. Sting began to tread his way through the wizards who were all stood, shocked, staring at him. He didn’t care what they thought about him, he didn’t even know half of their names. But then his eyes met the glare of their guildmaster, and he felt every nerve in his body go dead. He ran out of the hall, taking it two stairs at a time with his hand clamped over his mouth. It was the only thing that stopped him from throwing up.


	3. Beautiful Scars on Critical Veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***TRIGGER WARNING***  
> This chapter deals with the idea of self-harm. Just thought I'd let you all know before you start...
> 
>  
> 
> message me on tumble: @ice-bringer (:

The door slammed shut as Sting hastily glanced around the guild's bathroom, searching for people but finding none. Good. In defeated exhaustion, Sting slumped against the uncomfortable wooden ridges of the toilet door as the terror which made his heart go still made tears pool in his azure eyes.

Sabertooth's male toilets consisted of whitewash walls, haphazardly illuminated by a trickle of bright, white lights along the ceiling, and a cracked mirror which sat vainly above a tiny sink. The three toilet stalls sat adjacent to the urinals, and a window poked uncertainly out of the corner of the far wall, next to the sink. For all that was in the bathroom, it was quite small and cramped. It struggled to fit more than four people at any one time, and Sting tried his best to avoid it completely... unless it was truly necessary.

It was tense, those first few moments in the obscenely lit room. Sting's breath was shallow as he waited to see if anyone had followed him up here. He prayed to every plausible God in existence that they had not. Sting feared how he would react to a stranger, or worse, someone he actually knew. Then again, why would they follow him? He hadn't even spoken two words to some of the people sitting down stairs, and concern was hardly a common trait amongst strangers.

No, the only person- the only people (could you classify two talking cats as people? Sting wasn't sure)- who would feel remorse if he suddenly stopped existing, would miss him if he finally gave in to the monster in his mind and allowed it to consume the last small part of his being that Sting still considered to be himself, were the three members of his team whom he'd left stunned mere moments ago. Surely Rogue wouldn't want to see him now, after everything that happened. It wouldn't surprise the blonde if Rogue hated him for it. Sting knew that feeling with an intimate sense of familiarity; he hated himself as well.

If Rogue decided to keep his distance for a few days or weeks or years, Sting wouldn't blame him. In fact, he wanted his dragon slayer friend to be angry, to snarl in emotional anguish and take physical blows. Maybe then, it would be easier for Sting to face the hurricane of guilt that threatened to tear him up at his foundations and rip him apart, until he no longer recognised himself.

Or what was left of himself, anyway.

And he knew. Oh, he knew far too well, that guilt this agonisingly raw would ruin him. He saw it in the hazy stare of his eyes, and the tear-stained mattress which waited, abused and limp, for Sting to return. Brief images of his parent dragon, Weisslogia, dying, Rogue's shocked face as Sting had yelled at him, Lector's childlike disappointment when he realised he would no longer be living with his beloved Sting-kun, made him gag. Yes, Sting Eucliffe was hardly a stranger to crippling guilt.

"Um- excuse me? S-sting-sama?" A soft, uncertain voice sounded from the other side of the door. Sting blanched. He had been so engrossed in his own self-loathing that he hadn't even heard the pitter-patter of heels against wood. How stupid could he be? Stupid, pathetic, worthless-

"Is everything- are you okay?" She was gentle, Sting could tell immediately. Gentle and kind. The slight wavers in her voice revealed two things to the dragon slayer. One, she had experienced enough pain and hardship in her life to be cautious wherever she was. Two, she was afraid of him, of his undeniable power and destructive reputation. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing; if he lost it with this women, then neither one of them would be surprised. In Sting's mind, that only made things easier.

To his own disbelief, Sting actually recognised her voice. Females rarely spoke to him in the guild, Minerva, maybe was an exception. But even so, she only appeared on occasion, and even then it was to taunt and aggravate Sting... and whichever poor soul that happened to fall into her trap.

If she was familiar, if Sting actually remembered the sound of her voice... that had to be it! The new girl, the celestial wizard. It was only her second week in the guild, and Sting could still recall her first day. She had trembled under the momentous gaze of a pack of hungry Tigers, and timidly announced her name, the only detail which didn't flit through Sting's charged mind. Yato... Yuriko...

"It's Yukino. I-I'm new here? I just- I wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed pretty upset back there, if you don't mind me saying." She was far too kind, and Sting's whole face softened with longing. He wanted to open the door and take her by the hand, dragging her to sit with himself and Rogue and their companions, watching her blush a furious scarlet and she dined with the infamous Twin Dragons. Because Sting knew, without any shadow of doubt in his mind, that this timid girl would make an excellent friend. So far, he couldn't recall her sitting with anyone besides her spirits and her novels. Suddenly, Sting felt sad for an entirely different reason.

"I'm fine, thank you." He kept his voice level and indifferent. Her appearing so suddenly out of virtually no where had thrown the blond. She provided a brief distraction, but as soon as she left, Sting knew he would fall apart again. He had heard people speak of 'bonds of friendship', and that these unseen ties held people together. Sting didn't believe in romanticised jargon like that, but if it were proven to be true then Sting could feel his ropes loosening. And with each minute he spent away from Rogue, with every ill feeling that passed between them, Sting could feel those ties slipping from his fingers completely. It would only be a matter of time before they were gone, and he was left alone once again.

"Are you- Are you sure?" She was persistent, her tone becoming more relaxed despite her frequent stammering.

"Yes. Thanks. I'll stay up hear for a while. Cool off." Sting leaned away from the door, eager to distance himself from both the conversation and reality. It was obvious that she wanted to make friends with the blond, and maybe if circumstances were different- if Sting was different- they could be as close as he saw members of other guilds to be. But life is like a game of cards, and Sting knew that every card dealt to him was a Ten of Swords.

"If you're sure... but if you ever want to- to like, chat, or anything- about anything, of course, then I'll always be there, Sting-sama."

He couldn't help it. Despite everything, despite all of the barricades Sting had built and the lies he had spun, both out of necessity and to shield himself, Sting felt the damp caress of tears along his pale cheeks.

"Yeah... thank you." Sting muttered. He was afraid that, if his voice was any louder, it would betray him entirely.

Sting could sense the ghost of Yukino's hand as it hovered uncertainly on the other side of the wood, not content with how little she had been of help, but also not close enough to him- both physically and mentally- to do anymore. He pitied her, pitied both her beauty and her kindness. In a guild like Sabertooth, both would be her undoing.

Seconds later the sound of heels against the stairs echoed throughout, and Sting closed his eyes firmly, sinking to the ground with his knees pressed against his chest and back slumped flush against the door. Sting's fists balled up as he subconsciously pushed them against his eyes. If he couldn't hold back his emotions internally, he would have to force them away physically. The sound of his own muffled sobs was proof enough that that didn't work as well as he'd hoped.

In utter desperation, Sting took in every detail of his surroundings. When he got himself worked up like this, when his breath was a short and shallow pant flittering along his chapped lips, and his heart beat in an erratic frenzy, he could view things with much more clarity. He noticed things that he would have previously ignored, things that seemed so insignificant that they didn't even register in his brain before he forgot them entirely.

Sometimes, it served as a way to calm himself down. If he could focus on the world around him, then he could remind himself that thing's will improve. Or at least, he would learn to cope with the bad. Either one was better than the crippling misery that clawed through his body.

This time, Sting saw the trace of feathers underneath the sink; proof that Rufus had been in here before him. He noticed the mould which formed in grimy constellations along the inside of the toilet, and the fluff which iced the top of the urinal cake. He saw every trace of dust on the windowsill, and the shaving razor which sat, still damp, on the side of the acrylic sink. A razor in the guild hall? The idea seemed ludicrous to Sting. Immediately, he blamed Orga for such an obscene item; he didn't seem to have any regard for social normality, not from what Sting could tell, anyway. The blond offered himself a dry smile when he realised that, after everything that had happened today, he was more concerned with the manners of a guild-mate than his own mental wellbeing.

But that razor- Sting stared at it, wide eyed and gawking, and it gaped back. As it glinted dangerously in the sun, Sting shivered at all of the promises it offered him. None of them where a solution to his problems, but all of them were a short term relief.

And in Sting's position, he would take whatever he could get.

Boosting himself up to a kneeling position, Sting reached over and clutched the cool plastic between his shaking fingers. Each anguish fused memory, each word and action and torment, sent earthquakes reverberating up Sting's spine, and he felt those tremors domino out into the air in his lungs and the nails on his toes and the pads of his fingertips. He felt the shocks jolt his heart and heard them ring in his ears as he rolled up his sleeve and pressed the blade longingly against the soft cushion of his wrist.

He had heard about this before, people who did this. It was supposed to help. It granted freedom, albeit momentarily, from the nightmares that stalked the day and the dreams that soured the night. Sting hadn't applied any force yet; the blade was still. Purple veins trailed like watercolours along the canvass of his skin, but blues and lilacs were boring to the dragon slayer. Now he wanted to see his skin painted a brilliant shade of red.

It had to help. It had to. But- afterwards. What would he do after this? Where was there to go once you reached the end? Sting had fell from his cliff long ago, and now he was in freefall. Doing this, maiming his body in the most grossly intimate of ways, might be the impact Sting had been dreading and anticipating in equal measures.

His hand clenched, the frail plastic warping and shattering under Sting's incredible strength. He gripped the shattered remains of the razor and held them close to his chest. He didn't feel the baleful bite of the blade against the palm of his hand, nor did he acknowledge the steady stream of scarlet which flowed from that wound.

Sting needed to escape.

He ran his good hand through his blond hair and tugged at it's roots in distress. He couldn't do this, couldn't be here any longer. The air felt stale somehow, and it stuck to his throat in dry clumps. He couldn't swallow or breathe, the oxygen dying out before it even touched his parted, trembling lips.

The window at the opposite end of the bathroom was open, and Sting stumbled over to it with need. He stuck his head out side, lapping in the gentle breeze which teased his throat. A way out! He shoved the window as far open as he possibly could and started forcing his body through it. It was small, no doubt an inadequate size for his muscular build, and the frame strained under his weight. The drop was only around fifteen feet in the air. With his dragon slayer grace, the distance seemed nothing at all. Even so, even if his body was injured during the fall, a broken arm, a broken leg, a broken neck. It was nothing but collateral damage.

_Sting needed to escape._

The wind whooshed past him in an erratic array of white noise, and his lean legs were poised for running long before they hit the ground. Sting landed in a crouch and immediately started sprinting, his head thumping it's own heartache as he raced away from his guildhall.

Sometimes, Sting felt like dying. Other times, he wanted nothing more than to start living. At that moment, the dragon slayer could not decide which of these emotions haunted his brain. But the razor blade weighed heavily in his palm nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you were wondering, the 'Ten of Swords' is a card used in tarot card reading which symbolises destruction and hopelessness^^


	4. A Tongue like a Nightmare that Cut like a Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A LOT OF TRIGGER WARNINGS!
> 
> Explicit description of rape... please don't read it if you struggle with that subject.
> 
> Also, please feel free to follow/message me on Tumblr @ice-bringer

Sabertooth was located vaguely near the ocean, only a five mile run away at best, and Sting was glad of the distance. It gave him time to clear his head, and by the time he had reached the edge of the beach, his pulse had increased due to exercise and nothing more.

As soon as he settled on the sand, Sting released his grip on the razor blade. His hand was still bleeding, the cut mapping out his uncertainties all across his palm, and the broken fractures of metal and plastic fell into the dusty sand. Sting stared at it for a moment before scooping up a large pile of sand with his good hand and brushing the remains of the razor into the hole with his bad one. He didn't mark the area, nor did he look for any significant features around him. This was not some kind of buried treasure he would seek for later; it was a temptation, and one he did not need.

Sand had started to sting his cut, so Sting searched for something to cover it with before he returned home. There were a few tissues left in his trouser pockets, and Sting clumped them together and applied it to his palm, both dabbing away the blood and protecting it from infection. 

"Hey Sting, is that you?" The voice startled him, but the rhetorical  question clearly belonged to Natsu, someone Sting had not seen since the Grand Magic Games. Sting knew it was rhetorical, because Natsu would have smelt him long before he ever came into sight. Asking was mere politeness; Natsu had already identified the hunched figure as the white dragon slayer.

"Natsu-san, what are you doing here?" Sting subtly covered up the bloody sand with fresh, golden grains. He hoped that Natsu had not smelt or seen anything suspicious. Judging by the way he smiled, Sting assumed that he hadn't.

"Me, Lucy and Happy have some work down in Oak Town. We were  gonna  pass through  Saber  on the way there to say hello!" Only then did Sting notice the blue cat flying happily beside Natsu.

"So, um, where  _is_  Lucy-san?" 

"She's having a bath at the hotel. Me and Natsu came here to train before our job tomorrow." Happy answered, folding his wings away in a blur of blue magic, and standing by  Natsu's side. Sting was so focused on the exceed, he didn't notice the scrutiny he was under from the other dragon slayer.

"Are you okay, Sting?" Natsu asked calmly, tilting his head to the side to accompany his question. 

"I'm fine." Sting tried to keep his tone steady, his smile unwavering. Whether he achieved this or not, he couldn't be sure. Natsu turned and knelt to speak to Happy.

"Happy, can you go and get Lucy for me? She should totally train with us!"  His dragon canines peeked from under his thin lips as the reassurance forced into his voice fought to suppress the tenseness which creased the corners of his smile.

Happy unfurled his wings and paused. A meaningful exchange passed silently between the Exceed and the dragon slayer, one Sting was too exhausted to decipher but recognised nonetheless. It was an imitation of what he used to have with Lector before everything become so... so... _fucked up_. Sting felt the familiar bite of tears in his eyes, but nothing showed on his face. The blond realised with a weary intake of breath that he was too far gone for crying, had shed so many tears over the past few years that a wetness in his eyes and his throat choking him on noises he was too afraid to make had some how  become the norm in his strange world.

Sting glanced up from his knees to watch as Happy gave an unsure 'Aye' and flew into the distance. Natsu slumped next to Sting, lying back with his hands beneath his ruffled pink hair and knees bent parallel to Sting's. 

Silence settled over the pair, Natsu's considered and contemplating, Sting's tired and isolated. The minutes started to feel longer, time bending and stretching to fill the air with stale niceties and fresh awkwardness until, when the sun began to sink into the horizon and stars freckled the soft lapis lazuli sky, Natsu decided to speak.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" His words were crystal and clear-cut, the intent behind them honest, but transparent. Natsu Dragneel was like a pane of glass; straight-edged, resistant, and yet unexpectedly fragile. Sting had admired that about the pinkette in his youth, had tried his hardest to cut his own personality to be almost the mirror image of the heroic salamander of Fairy Tail. There was maybe a time when he had almost succeeded, but that was long in the past. If Natsu was a full sheet of glass then Sting was nothing but a shard. Incomplete. Sharp. Broken. Too dangerous to touch, too caught up in what was, or could have been. Too-

"Sting?"  Natsu's voice was sharper now, concern laced through each syllable, drawing Natsu's words up to a higher, more uneasy tone.

"No, I'm okay." The words were nothing more than a shallow breath carried over the warm breeze of night, but Natsu caught the lie within them.

"You can tell me things, if you want." He shrugged casually and looked away, watching the waves lap languidly against the tired shore.

“Yeah, I know.” The sentence hung between them, dry and simple. Sting knew he could talk to Natsu, but  he also knew that there was a difference between ‘speaking’ and ‘saying something’. He could make mindless chatter for days to cover up the anguish he felt, but that wasn't the weighty words-of-value the fire dragon slayer was expecting. Instead, Sting opted for something else, something he had been wondering for quite some time.

“Natsu-San, are you and Gray-San happy?” Natsu blinked at the words, his shock evident in his wide mouth and tense muscles. After a second of silence, he bloomed into a glorious smile, sitting up to meet Sting’s eye level and booming out his words in a jovial tone, all of his previous angst forgotten.

“Yes, we are! I mean, he's still an Ice Bastard, and he's more than a bit of a pervert- he is a stripper, after all-  but yes. We're both happy at the moment.”

“What's it like… Being with another man.”  If the situation were different, Sting may have felt embarrassed at such an intrusive question. But he burned with the desire to know how something that caused him so much pain could be done willing, gladly even, by the strong individuals he had always admired.

“It’s… Pretty intense.” Natsu admitted. “I'm not sure how it is for other male couples, but for me and Gray almost everything is a competition. Dinner, the cleaning, sex…” Natsu cackled childishly, throwing his head back and screwing his eyes shut. He only just missed the shudder that rippled down Sting’s spine at the mention of… Intimacy.

"Does that not,  ya  know ... hurt? I mean, the sex. " Sting blurted, immediate regret tainting his cheeks a pale pink. Natsu was hardly faced by such a personal question, and his eyes gleamed with memories of love making with his boyfriend.

"Yes." The answer was simple, and Natsu grinned around it. "It does hurt, especially the first few times. I remember the first time I took it up the ass- fucking  _hell_  it hurt for days. I almost broke Gray's dick for doing that to me." He pouted then, and Sting merely stared open-mouthed at hearing such words come from his idol.

"After that though, it got better. Definitely better. I pretty much always bottom now." Natsu flopped back down on his back and thought for a second. Suddenly, he jolted forward and held Sting's gaze. "That doesn't mean I'm submissive though. Not a fucking chance! People assume that because I enjoy receiving I'm some kind of blushing uke, but that's the opposite of what I am, of what Gray and I do." Natsu looked passionate, lips set into a serious line and hair ruffled by both his fidgeting and the wind. Sting understood what Natsu was trying to say; there was a stereotype that the person who 'bottomed' during anal sex was the submissive partner, and Sting could see that, especially with Natsu and  Gray, that was not the case. They were equals in everything they did and, if anything, Gray probably had a hard time taming the dragon slayer at all.

"Okay, I get it now." Sting confirmed, offering a small, watery smile before shifting his gaze back towards the ocean.

"Why are you asking about me and Gray? Is there a guy you like?" Natsu teased, and Sting scoffed.

"Me and another man? Don't be so disgusting, Natsu-san." The words were spoken in a quiet tone, but with amount of attention they drew, Sting might as well have shouted them.

He hardly had time to screw his eyes up in regret before the right-hook crunched  noisily with the left side of his face. He glanced at Natsu's face, now shaded with anger, and looked away in shame. 

"You need to sort your shit out, Sting, and fast. Because one day you'll try and push someone who cares about you away, and you'll realise that you're already alone." Natsu glared hard before stomping away in vexation. Sting wasn't sure why Natsu hadn't picked a fight with him. Maybe he could tell that there was something happening in Sting's life that was keeping his happiness out of reach, or maybe he felt as though he had already said enough.

Either way, Sting felt the truth of words hit him harder than any punch ever had. First Rogue, now Natsu... even Yukino and the Exceeds. How many people had Sting pushed away recently? How many more would there be before he was alone with his unhappiness? Sting held his face in his palms, tears now trickling steadily down his face, as he wondered what else he could do today to make things worse.

* * *

Sting fumbled for his house- key in the pockets of his trousers, nearly dropping them several times in an attempt to unlock his door. The argument he had had with Natsu had thrown him, and the guilt he felt over it disorientated him. Sting felt queasy and faint, like he was at sea. Surely it was about time to step off of the boat? Or for the waves to overlap and Sting to drown in them?

As soon as the door sighed open and the apartment greeted Sting with unnatural darkness, Sting knew something was wrong. 

He had left his lights on this morning, something he had been doing every day since he could remember, so he was not to blame for the premature blackness engulfing his home. Someone had to have entered the apartment without his permission, but who could it be? Sting knew the answer to his question before the hand collided painfully with the bruised column of his collarbone, and his front door was slammed shut.

The sound rang painfully loud in Sting's ears, joined by the thrum of blood in his veins and the erratic pounding of his heart. Jiemma. Of course it was. Rogue and Jiemma were the only people other than Sting himself who had keys to Sting's apartment. One key was cut from years of friendship and mutual trust, the other from cruel necessity. Rogue wouldn't throw Sting into the night like this; he knew the light dragon slayer had an irrational fear of the dark. But then a rough hand fisted in Sting's hair, bruising his scalp, and Sting wondered if his anxieties were really so  _irrational_.

Another hand wrapped tightly around his throat as chapped lips were forced against Sting's trembling ones. The message of Jiemma's fingers curling around his windpipe was simple: reciprocate  or choke to death. Sometimes it was a difficult decision to make, but not tonight. Tonight, Sting allowed himself to be dragged to the bed without a struggle. He let his shirt be forced open, his trousers yanked down and his mind to go blank.

The room felt colder somehow- it always did when these encounters occurred- but Sting found himself shivering from more than just the cold. As he despairingly clutched the sheets below him, Sting felt the cut on his palm burst open, the fresh blood surely working its way through the blanket and onto his mattress. It would act as a const an t physical reminder of how weak Sting was. As if the bruises weren't bad enough. 

An unwelcome hand worked his member into false arousal. His mind lurched, the familiar feeling of hollowness sweeping any other thoughts clean away. Sting's body reacted on impulse, and his brain could not stop it. 

"Please." His voice was tiny and fragile, but sounded much louder in the space between the two men. 

"I knew you wanted it... you  slut !" Jiemma roughly spread Sting's legs apart, prepping him to make things easier for himself, and not out of tenderness and love. Sting knew that his plea had fallen on deaf ears, that his cry for help had been mistaken for one of pleasure. He did not want this, erection be damned! His body may have reacted in the way it always did when it was touched intimately, but there was no part of his mind which consented to anything which was happening to him.

"No... stop..." Sting whispered, trying again to show how much he despised both the fingers probing his backside and the man they belonged to. Jiemma acted as if he hadn't even spoken at all.

"Moan for me." His words were a toxic purr, and very different to anything he had ever sai d before. Normally this was fast and messy, with only Sting's cries interrupting Jiemma's actions. When Sting stared at him, blotchy faced  and gaping, Jiemma raised the back of his hand and struck Sting stark across his face, shadowing the imprint of Natsu's hand which still stung his cheek.   


"I said moan for me!" Jiemma's voice was commanding now, and it was the same tone he used in the guild when he was expelling a member. The slap to his cheek caught Sting by surprise, and in his confusion Sting obeyed. 

And so it went on, Jiemma would growl an order and Sting would follow it, the fear his own feebleness and failure slightly outweighing the hatred for his guildmaster. The pain was a torment against his flesh, Jiemma's words cut and prod and moulded Sting to be everything he was not, but exactly what Jiemma told him he should be. Throughout the act, Sting's hand bled and bled, and that dull throb of pain was the only thing keeping Sting rooted to reality. It showed that he was real and live, and he was more than just a sex toy used for the enjoyment of a filthy older man. And in the morning, when this was over and Sting had recovered slightly, he would dress his hand properly. It would heal, given time, and it was Sting's largest hope that he would, as well. 


	5. I Can't Breathe but I Still fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real warnings for this chapter, and things /should/ get better from now on... huehuehue...
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: @ice-bringer (:

It was dark when Sting awoke the next morning- or afternoon. Sting couldn't be sure. He glanced at his alarm clock, which glared a red '1:34pm' into the forced darkness of Sting's bedroom. The blinds were down, curtains drawn and lights all switched off. Some slivers of light dared to peek through minute gaps in Sting's window, but they did nothing to illuminate the cool room.

Sting rolled out of bed, wincing as his body protested against any form of movement. It was too late to go to the guild now, not that Sting particularly  _wanted_  to face that crowd, not after yesterday, which left Sting with an entire afternoon and evening free. Pulling what he hoped were clean clothes from his drawer, Sting padded barefoot into his kitchen. The chair he sat down on was wooden and hard and uncomfortable, and bit painfully into the charcoal bruises smudging his pale flesh. At the memory of what had taken place the night before, Sting hastily pulled on his shirt.

A whiskey bottle was still sitting on the counter, a glass placed purposefully beside it. The brand was cheap and vile, but Sting craved the burn of liquid down his throat. Without thinking, he reached out and poured half a glass. Sting's hands shook, whiskey sloshing uneasily in the glass as he tried to fight a battle he had already lost. Shutting his eyes with a defeated sigh, Sting threw his head back and placed the glass against his parted, waiting lips. The drink hadn't been watered down, and Sting felt fire in his mouth and down his throat. It cleansed him, purged his of all of the sordid acts he had been used for over the past few hours. Sting poured himself another glass, needing more of the liquid comfort found only at the bottom of an empty liquor bottle.

He was still nursing the glass when a sharp, hard knock on his door sounded from the other room. Sting lifted his gaze from the glass in his hand to the direction of his front door, but made no effort to move. It was probably the postman, or maybe Lector checking up on him. Whoever it was would leave eventually.

"I know you're in there, Sting. I can smell you." Sting wasn't sure why Rogue's voice surprised him, but it did. Even so, Sting did not move. Rogue was kind and honest and constant. He was like the moon pulling the tide, and Sting was the water. He relied on Rogue to give him direction, purpose, and Rogue didn't deserve to be lied to, not all of the time. Sting drank the rest of his drink in a hurry before abruptly standing. His chair clattered to the floor noisily, but Sting hardly glanced at it as he made his way back through his home.

There were shadows peering under his door as he approached, and Sting realised that, if he hadn't of answered the door, Rogue could have- and would have- let himself inside. Why he wasn't using his key, Sting didn't know. He cursed loudly.  

“I'm coming.” He said, not bothering to raise his voice past its normal tone. Rogue would hear him, either way.  

The key turning in the lock sounded painfully loud, and Sting winced at the disruption to his afternoon drink. A headache already glazed the fuzzy edges of his mind, and Sting shut his eyes against the pain. The door was pushed open, and Rogue forced himself inside.

"You weren't going to let me in." Not a question, but a statement. Dark lines of upset and hurt at being ignored tucked themselves into the creases of Rogue's frown. Sting swallowed loudly.

"I was in the shower..." He said, trailing off when he realised the fatal error he had made; he was fully dressed and bone dry. The lie thickened the air between them, but neither of them commented.

"Natsu came to the guildhall last night." Rogue began slowly, easing himself into Sting's apartment and causing the latter to follow.  

"Oh yeah, what did he want?" If there was one skill Sting had acquired, it was hiding how he truly felt. He did not want to talk about Natsu-san, or what had passed between them, but the knots in Rogue's shoulders and the tenseness of his posture was indication enough that this was heading to exactly that.

"To know if you were okay." There were so many emotions woven into that one sentence, Sting was momentarily taken aback by it. He detected love, and betrayal. Honesty and anger. And a question: are you okay, Sting?  

"If there was something wrong, don't you think you'd be the first one I'd tell?" Sting laughed, but no humour showed on Rogue's face.  

"Okay then, so what are those?" The calmness in Rogue's voice as he indicated to the bruises made the night before was like a chilly breeze against Sting's face, and he shuddered against it.  

"Marks from a job I went on-"

"I checked all of the jobs you've been on in the past three months-" Rogue interrupted coldly.  

"What the hell, Rogue?! Have you been stalking me?" Sting took one step forward, anger sparking in his eyes. Rogue ignored his outburst and barrelled on with his speech.  

"-and the last job you went on was with me. In Bosco. That was last week. Those bruises are fresh, only a day or two old. How did you get them, Sting?" The last part was soft and gentle, Rogue reaching forward to rest his hand on Sting's forearm. When Sting flinched away, Rogue's hand dropped and so did his expression. When he spoke again, all of his previous warmth had dissolved.

"Answer me!" Rogue's voice raised in volume, his breathing was quick and shallow.  

"I..." Sting swallowed dryly, lies closing up his throat as he choked on air that never reached his lungs.  

"Please, Sting." That same warmth and softness that Sting had always associated with Rogue was back now, and relief shuddered down Sting's spine. If Rogue truly hated him, Sting wouldn't be able to live. And that's why Rogue could never know. He could never-

"Someone is hurting you." A statement, not a question. Rogue's jaw was rigid, his eyes knowing. If Sting had eaten the day before he would have thrown up.  

"Who is it?" There was so room for lies now, no place for Sting to run and hide. Rogue knew something was wrong, and Sting was too exhausted to deny it any longer.

"Jiemma." A breath, uttered from dry, chapped lips. He could play it down, make out that he was simply training with his guild master, but didn't want Rogue to know about it. He was Sting's teammate, after all. It would look bad if only one of them was receiving special training.

But then Sting looked up, eyes glazed and lips quivering, and saw that Rogue's expression matched his own. This was hurting Rogue, and it showed in the tremor of his hands and the blotchiness colouring his cheeks.

"Does he- does he beat you?" The hitch in Rogue's voice made Sting's chest hurt in ways he had never experienced. How could he lie to Rogue when he looked at Sting with wide, vulnerable eyes, filled with tears over Sting's pain? How could he lie to Rogue when he was just so  _honest_?

Sting picked fluff from his trousers and looked at anything-  _anything_ \- except Rogue's face. "Not-not always. Not every time." Rogue was already speaking before Sting had the chance to correct his mistake.

"Every time? So this has happened before?" Rogue's voice was flat now, and Sting wondered how one man could show so many emotions in such a short space of time. Rogue truly was something to marvel at, and Sting felt an ache of regret that he never appreciated his best friend more. He owed it to Rogue to be honest now, because that's what Rogue had always been with him. What good are the supposed 'bonds of friendship' if the bonds were built up of lies?

"Yes." Sting shrunk in on himself, protected himself from Rogue's questions and Jiemma's inevitable wrath. If he found out that Rogue knew, he would no doubt kill both of them. Or just Rogue, just to cause Sting anguish. Neither of those were possibilities that Sting was fond of, and he silently vowed to himself that he would protect Rogue from that man. He would ensure that no person ever suffer under Jiemma like Sting had, and especially not Rogue.

Rogue leaned forward and placed a hand supportively on Sting's knee. Rogue squeezed gently until Sting lifted his head up and met his friend's steady gaze."For how long?"

More questions that Sting had no lies for. His mind reeled as he tried to sort the truth he knew from the fiction he told. Dizziness had began to haze Sting's mind, and he was suddenly glad that Rogue hadn't moved his hand, as it anchored him to the present.

How long had it been since Jiemma had first starting hitting Sting, or touching him? Was he fourteen or fifteen? Could he even  _remember_  the first time? Could he-

"Sting, for how long?!" Rogue urged, causing Sting to jolt. The anxiety tucked into the corners of Rogue's eyes told Sting that he had been lost in thought for longer than he realised. He answered on instinct.

"A few years. Four. Maybe five." Sting shrugged, doing anything to lighten the situation. But it was hard to be light when Rogue's expression was suddenly very, very dark. Rogue squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and when he re-opened them Sting saw nothing but a cold hardness that looked foreign in Rogue's ebony eyes, and Sting felt didn't suit him at all.

"You said he doesn't hit you every time... What else has he done to you?” The question was slow and deliberate. Rogue was not making any assumptions and wanted to hear the words from Sting before he acted. Sting was both respectful and resentful of Rogue's method.

In desperation, Sting grabbed Rogue's hand. Their fingers were not entwined, merely clasped together. The shocked expression which flitted over Rogue's face was more familiar to Sting, and he clung to it and the pale hand in front of him.

Sting didn't want to say it, didn't want to admit his weakness to the one person who had always made him strong. Saying it aloud made it real, and once it had been done there was no going back. Sting wasn't sure that he was ready for the repercussions admitting this would surely caused, and his stomach churned further at the thought.

"He- Rogue, he... ra-" Sting tried. His sentence was broken, words distorted by the lump forming in his throat. Sting pleaded Rogue with his eyes to understand. He begged Rogue to not make him say it, to just  _know_  what he meant. Whether it was years of friendship or just hesitant intuition, Sting wasn't sure, but Rogue finished Sting's sentence for him.

"Did he- did  _Jiemma_ \- rape you?" There was doleful hope in Rogue's eyes, the last glimmer of vulnerable optimism that made Rogue believe that this couldn't happen to Sting. Not to Sting. Sting looked at him, really looked, for the first time in months. Rogue's eyes were shiny and swollen, no doubt suppressing the same tears that Sting had already shed. His hair was messy and unkempt, and his clothes seemed limp and fell at odd angles on Rogue's body. Had he lost weight again? Sting was surprised that he hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed a lot of things, like how Rogue was no doubt so worried about him, he had become sloppy with his eating habits again. That Rogue was always there for him, even when Sting didn't realise that it was what he needed. That Rogue  _cared_  about Sting, maybe more than any one else ever had done before. And that was why it was okay. It was okay for Sting to tell Rogue the truth, because only he would accept it and still want Sting afterwards. Sting couldn't believe that he had ever thought Rogue would reject him; they were two sides of the same coin. Polar opposites, and yet one in the same. They needed each other like day needed night and the tide needed the moon.

With confidence Sting had forgotten he once possessed, he looked into Rogue's face and said, "Yes."  

Rogue stared back, and the one syllable hung between them like a rope. Or a noose. For the first time in longer than Sting could bare to count, the gallows of his reality did not seem to be trying to hang him, but rather were swinging in his favour. Rogue squeezed Sting's hand firmly, before jumping to his feet. With shadows already curling around his ankles, Rogue walked towards the door. Without turning back to Sting, Rogue coldly spoke.

"I'll kill him."


	6. When All is Said and Done and Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a playlist for this fanfic on my Tumblr (@ice-bringer). If you're interested then please let me know!

The words had an opposite affect on each boy. Rogue had already left Sting's apartment, taking off at almost inhuman speeds towards the guidhall. Sting, on the other hand, was sitting still, eyes wide and cheeks paled to a frightful shade of white. When the events had caught up with his reeling mind, Sting stumbled to his feet, running out of his already open door without bothering to close it behind him.

Rogue may have had a head start, but Sting was confident that he was a faster runner. He pushed on at an astonishing pace, treading through the muddy streets and weaving through ignorant bystanders. A shadow shifted out of the corner of his eye, and Sting swore loudly, earning a scolding look from an elderly gentleman. Sting couldn't help himself though; he recognised that movement in the shadows. It was a technique Rogue used in battle that allowed him to move through the dark instead of on foot. It made him faster, and also meant that the enemy never saw him approach.

Sting prayed that he would reach the guild before Rogue did.

He lived a ten minute walk away, so running reduced the time significantly. Even so, it felt like a small infinity had passed before he was finally standing in front of the Sabertooth gates. There was a loud crash from the inside, bricks and dust flying from the far wall. Something moved from amidst the rubble and ran through the narrow hole, and another clatter ensued. Sting felt dizzy, but still forced himself through into the main hall of the old building.  

Inside, Sting was forced to confront everything that he feared. Jiemma was standing facing away from Sting and glowed with eerie purple energy. Rogue was resting on one knee, already forced to wipe a drip of blood from his chin. When he saw Sting standing in the doorway, Rogue's entire expression shifted. He looked guilty, and forlorn, and unbelievably determined. There was also a billow of bereavement shadowing his dark eyes, and Sting wondered what Rogue had lost... or thought he'd lost, anyway.

All thoughts were immediately interrupted when Sting realised that everyone in the guild was looking at him, Jiemma included. It was a slow day at the guild, there was nobody there that Sting particularly recognised except Dobengal, who watched idly from the corner. Everybody else either hung their heads low in shameful ignorance, or ogled with keen and unabashed interest.  

The energy surrounding Jiemma intensified as he turned and walked purposefully towards Sting. His long legs strode effortlessly over the upturned tables and broken chairs which littered the previously clean hall, and if Sting hadn't been so frightened he may have wondered what he had already missed. But he  _was_  afraid, and that was the reason why he stood there, motionless, as Jiemma picked him up by the throat, fingers finding purchase on the bruises they had left the night before, and slammed him up against the back wall.  

"YOU INSOLENT BOY!" Jiemma thundered, his anger becoming tremors of energy which racked the guild and made dust fall from the ceiling.  

Sting scrambled to try and unclench Jiemma's fat, meaty fingers from around his throat. His efforts only made Jiemma's grip tighten, and Sting's vision started to speckle as he choked out short pants of air. Somewhere in his mind, Sting registered Rogue's broken yelling of his name. And then a shadowy bolt of black lightening hit Jiemma square between the shoulders, and he let go of Sting in pure surprise. The sensation of oxygen returning to his lungs burned Sting more than the feeling of losing it, but he wheezed it in nonetheless.

Jiemma turned to glare angrily at Rogue, eyes flaming a brilliant red as he marched towards the shadow dragon slayer. Rogue already stood in a defence position, lips parted and eyes hard. The shadows in the room accumulated around his feet as he prepared for battle.  

Jiemma landed the first blow.

It hit with enough impact to make Sting wince, and Rogue rolled across the floor. He was immediately back up on his knees, stumbling and bruised, but more determined than Sting had ever known to be. When Jiemma landed the second hit and blood was torn from a gaping wound formed on Rogue's abdomen, Sting blanched out of his shock and rushed to protect Rogue. Next, Jiemma turned on him. It continued in that vein, Jiemma swung his fist and Rogue blocked it with his arm. Jiemma threw a bolt of magic and Sting countered with a brilliant light.

Although Sting was still fearful and uncertain, part of him relished the feeling of his fists impacting with Jiemma's flesh. Every attack he sent hit harder than the one before it, and it showed it the blood leaking from cuts covering Jiemma's body, and the unsteady sway of his muscular form.  

The other members of the guild had departed now, leaving the twin dragon slayers alone with their master. Whether they had gone for help or left to protect themselves from the crumpling building and bloody violence, Sting didn't know. He didn't care that much either, as Jiemma's fist sent him hurtling into Rogue. They both crashed into the far wall, struggling to stand on weakening limbs and choking on their own blood. With an anguish which coiled in his stomach and tightened his chest, Sting realised that Rogue was far worse off than himself.

Rogue's kimono was torn, and it mapped out every stage of the fight thus far. There were bruises already forming on exposed masses of flesh from the earlier, more gentle attacks, and gaping holes, deep gashes and spluttering wounds from where things were far more serious. Sting was surprised that Rogue could even stand, let alone remain conscious long enough to fight.

Sting touched Rogue's shoulder gently, trying to get his attention. He succeeded, and Rogue's eyes- lidded with fatigue and bruises- met Sting's. They stared each other for the longest seconds of their lives, and then nodded in understanding. No words needed to pass between them; what happened next was obvious to them both.  

In a rush of movement, Rogue flung his leg forward with the force of his entire body, barely keeping himself rooted with the one hand he kept balanced on the floor. It knocked into Jiemma's legs and caused the man to fall to his knees with a primitive yell.

"Now, Sting!" Rogue's coarse voice barely coughed out.

Sting needed no further prompting.

Light began to pool in his palms, and he felt the energy surge through him. It was white, pure as his magic always was, but flecks of red flickered at the base of his hands. Sting breathed deeply through his nose and let the power circulate throughout his veins. For every tear stain on his pillow. For every day he told himself that he deserved this. For every forced kiss and violent beating. For himself. Sting needed this.

"Holy Dragon's Crimson Deterge!" The roar was ripped from the foundations of Sting's being, and he shook with the intensity of it.  

The light burst forth from his hands in a thick laser which penetrated straight through Jiemma's chest. He cried out, eyes rolling back in his chest, as he collapsed onto his front. There was a breathless second when both boys waited to see a shift in movement, but Jiemma remained still. Immediately, Sting turned to Rogue, who was barely keeping himself propped up with both of his arms.

"You did it..." Rogue grinned wide, tears streaking down his face happily. He then began a coughing fit again, blood coursing from his mouth with each tremor of his body.  

He had already passed out before Sting had reached him.


	7. Band Aids Don't Fix Bullet Holes

"No, no, no! Rogue, please get up!" Sting cradled Rogue's head against his chest, rocking it gently in an attempt to stir his friend. Rogue was still and cold, much colder than he normally was, and Sting could feel the blood pooling out and covering him. The distinct noise of an ambulance alerted Sting, and as soon as he saw the medics arrive, Sting had placed Rogue gently on the floor and was trying to gain their attention.

"Over here!" Sting yelled, his voice rising and cracking with the effort.  Three shapes ran towards him in unfocused swirls of green and yellow.  His mind blacked out, re-focused, and then blacked out again. The only thing keeping him conscious was the grip on his forearm and the formal questions about his well-being. 

"Sir, are you related to this man?" The voice sounded distant and foggy. Sting nodded. He loved Rogue, so blood relation did not matter. That was enough.

In a concerned daze, Sting followed the hurried 'Come with us'   as  two of the medics carried Rogue onto a stretcher, careful to mind his wounds, and lifted him onto the ambulance. The third one kept one arm propped under Sting as  s he led him onto the vehicle and allowed Sting to sump into the offered chair. Before the door had even slammed shut behind them, the ambulance had jolted into motion. Sting's stomach churned nothing but whiskey, and he rested his head back against the cool metal in defeat.

"What happened to the other one?" Sting's speech was barely audible through his gritted teeth. The medic- a short, bland woman in her 40s- reached behind her to fumble in a bag,  producing  an antiseptic and some cotton wool. Blindly, Sting reached forward to grasp Rogue's cold, sweaty hand.

"What other one?" The medic's voice was like sand paper on steel. They hit a bump in the road, and Sting's stomach heaved.  She dabbed at his wounds with the sodden cotton, wiping it over the cuts on his face and trailing over it down his bloody neck. Sting was so focused on Rogue's face to flinch, and registered the burning pain as a dull throb at the back of his mind.

Sting tried to meet her gaze, but she was squinting too hard at his neck to  not ice .  " Jiemma , the other man there? He was injured as well." Sting hated  Jiemma , hated him more than he would ever be able to express through actions or words, but still he could not leave him  alone  to die. 

"Sir, you two were the only ones present. The woman who called us explained your names, your ages, and your... situations." Her eyes softened, but her cat-scratch voice remained the same.

" Wh -what situation?" Heat burned in Sting's eyes as he started to feel more light-headed. H e  was suddenly very aware of how much blood in the ambulance belonged to him.

"About yours and Mr. Cheney's mental illnesses, and how you both came in in a rage and destroyed your guild," She averted her gaze, fiddling with  lacrimas  and wires, all of which she connected to Rogue's still form.

Sting swallowed back bile and blood, grimacing at the bitter fluid as it clung to his throat. "Did she give her name?" 

The paramedic shook her head in response, but still Sting saw white spots daze his vision. He had thought she was on a job... He was /certain/ that she had yet to return... Sting didn't need a name to work out who had called the ambulance, to know who had protected  Jiemma . It could only be Minerva, and the fact that she was now involved in this tidal wave of pain caused new tendrils of fear to prickle Sting's nerves.

When he eventually fell  away from consciousness , he dreamt of nothing but blackness, and eyes that shone so gold, they were almost like a  Tigeress .

~'*'~

The slow, steady beeping sounded louder than it should have to Sting, and he awoke with a sharp intake of breath. His heart beat fast, his head pulsated with pain, and he was more than a little aware of the hospital bed he was now laying on. 

Sting could not remember how he had gotten there, but the when he tried to move off the bed a sharp pain extending from his lower abdomen upwards reminded him of _why_  he was there, the fresh cotton bandages not helping to heal the tightening of his chest. Sting gripped the edge of the bed as he centred his focus, trying his hardest to locate the one person he needed to see most. He sniffed hard, trying the air to see if it would lead him to his loved one.

The cotton hospital gown felt like sandpaper on Sting's drug-sensitive skin, and it followed his movements with cat-like scratches which made him wince as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The intravenous tugged painfully in  resistance, and Sting pulled it out with a low hiss, ignoring the blood which inevitably dripped down his already  bruised arm. His nose led him through the thin, blue, plastic curtain and into the dim hallway. Hospital staff surrounded him, ushering him back to bed with stern glances and worried words. But their concerns registered as nothing more than a buzz in the background of Sting's mind, and he swatted them away as he moved closer to his destination.

Rogue's bed was three down from Sting's, and the lay out of it mirrored his own. Except the machines which Sting had ignored were all wired up to Rogue, with a tube going through his mouth and bandages covering most of his  visible  body. His complexion was never 'bright', but even to Sting, Rogue looked significantly paler. Sting slumped into the chair meant for visitors, ignoring the nurse who followed him in and 'absolutely insisted' that he returned to bed.

"Okay." Sting said, his eyes not  leav ing  Rogue's face.

"Okay?" Her voice sounded faint.

"As long as he comes with me." 

"Sir, he can't move from that bed-"

"Then I'm not moving from this fucking chair." Sting's words cut smoothly through her resolve, and she turned away with a defeated sigh, pulling the  curtai n  closed behind her in mock privacy. He hadn't meant to be so harsh with her; she was only doing her job,  after all, but it was vital to Sting than Rogue and himself were together at that moment. It was his fault that Rogue looked so fragile and broken, and he'd be damned if he was going to run away from it.

"Rogue..." Sting reached forward and took the cold, limp hand in his own. The heart monitor beeped steadily, and Sting found himself entranced by the way that it rose and fell in soothing, rhythmic  beats. 

This was all Sting's fault, and he made no effort to deny that fact as it made his lips tremble and his grip on Rogue's hand tighten. Sting  had never wanted Rogue to find out, let alone get involved, and he certainly did not deserve that amount of loyalty and care from one person. And Rogue had given him that, and so much more. He was the last person who deserved to be laying in such a vulnerable place. If Rogue was the last then Sting was very much the first, and he felt a wave of contempt for himself flood his being like nothing he had previously experienced. 

"You don't deserve this... deserve to be stuck with me..." Sting's voice shook with anger, his free hand balling into the generically white bed sheets.

What kind of a friend was he? He had spent so long trying to protect Rogue from the  mon sters  which  plagued  him, and yet all it had done was bring more despair. Sting's mouth filled with bitterness as he wished that he had been stronger, because then maybe Rogue wouldn't have found out the truth . Sting's eyes screwed shut. All he did was bring destruction to those he loved, and it was only a small  consolation  that Lector had been spared from the onslaught.

"And I'm sorry, Rogue, I truly am." This was not the time nor place to be saying this, but Sting was not sure if there would ever be another time again. Although Rogue's heart monitor was steady, it was also abnormally slow, and it rang in Sting's ears as his face dropped to bury in Rogue's chest.

"I love you, Rogue, but all I've done is hurt you."  His words were muffled and shaky, but he knew that Rogue would understand. "But no more, Rogue. I promise you." Sting shot up, wiping at his eyes in case he had begun crying. But they were dry, and Sting realised that the wetness he felt was from the blood which continued to drip from his arm. He ignored it.

Swiping his fingers along the bruised crescent moon of Rogue's jaw, Sting smiled dolefully. His arms dropped like lead, his eyes burning with the fire of his own regret as he shuffled slowly from Rogue's bedside and into the crowded hospital lobby. 

Sting ignored them. The hospital staff who tried to force him back to bed, the police who eyed him warily as he approached, the members of his guild who loitered uncertainly around the entrance. Sting ignored them all, not even sparing a backwards glance as he left  through the sliding doors and, rather informally, discharged himself from the hospital's care. He stopped in the carpark, steps faltering briefly as his hands fisted in the cotton nightshirt. "No more, Rogue... no more..."


	8. Waves Roll in and Clean My Sins, Everything is Clear

“Sting-sama?” Yukino's voice was tight with worry, but the tone was something Sting had become accustomed to in the three weeks since Jiemma had disappeared. Sting swirled the alcohol in his hand around the bottle (he didn't remember what it was any more, but the way it scratched itself down his throat implied whiskey or vodka), and watched as it sloshed against the glass walls of the bottle. He drank a large gulp and winced slightly, the burn being a refreshing and familiar sensation as it clawed down his throat.

“I won't stay long today, I just thought that you should know that Rogue comes out of the hospital today.” Yukino's sigh was audible from Sting's position, an entire room's distance from the door. For once, he resented his dragon slayer hearing.

Sting dropped the bottle onto the floor, and it landed with a splintering crash of broken glass. His eyebrows twitched in disbelief, mouth going dry. “Rogue is... coming home?” He hadn't spoken in so long, his own voice sounded alien to his alcohol-numbed ears.

“Sting-sama, are you okay? Please let me in! Sting-sama?” Yukino's shrill bashing on the door hardly registered in Sting's mind. He was too preoccupied with thoughts of Rogue to notice much else.

For the first time in what felt like an age, Sting smiled. “I'm fine, Yukino.” Shockingly, Sting almost felt as though it was true. If Rogue was being let out of the hospital, he must be getting better. At least, he was well enough to be discharged! That had to be something, and Sting clung to it like an infant clutching his mother's dress; with hope, and a fragility that would ruin him if his worst fears were realised.

Yukino's voice was a gentle balm across the burn of the alcohol. “I-I guess I'll see you later then?” Her words were a tone higher, expectation and ecstasy sugar-coating every syllable so that Sting would not feel intimidated by the offer.

“Sure thing!” He beamed, racing around his flat to tidy up. Everyday, Yukino had come and sat outside of Sting's apartment. Sometimes it was for minutes, other days her voice could be heard for hours. Sting had not responded once, drinking himself into a coma on so many occasions that any words which he may have said were lost in a throat which was far too slick with booze. She had brought him food and friendship, offered both readily on a plate and Sting had rejected them, rejected her. Yukino had been good to him, patient. He would have to think of a way to thank her.

Footsteps could be heard leading away from his apartment, but they were acknowledged with hardly a nod. His fingers were shaking, but still he crammed clothes into inconvenient places and threw empty whiskey, vodka, rum, bourbon and cider bottles behind his settee and fridge in the hope that Rogue would not notice.

He knew that he should be there when Rogue was released, but there would be people there, guild members and acquaintances and enemies alike, and Sting could not face them, not after everything that had happened. Sting realised that the best way to avoid them would be simply by not leaving his flat, and he had done just that more than happily for over three weeks. The thought of leaving now, after all this time, made white noise scream in his ears.

So instead, Sting did the only thing that he could do: he waited.

* * *

 

The smell of coconuts and dust wafted under Sting's door, and he immediately recognised the scent. The shampoo was fresh, which meant that Rogue must have showered before he came visiting. Sting glanced in the mirror, noting any point of his reflection that could cause Rogue concern. His blond hair was greasy after going unwashed for over a week, and it stuck to his head at odd, unusual angles. His complexion was pasty and papery, with angry red marks smudged under his eyes like a child's crayon. The space around his eyes had sunken slightly, and Sting was surprised to see that he had lost weight. Overall, he could blame his shoddy appearance on concern and lack-of-sleep, and just prayed that Rogue trusted him enough to believe it.

Of course Sting realised that, after the blanket of lies he had been suffocating himself with, there was no reason why Rogue _should_  trust him, and also no reason why Sting should have enough courage to ask. But today was one of Sting's good days, or at least a better one, and he could only hope that Rogue would sense that subtle change in him.

The lock cracked, Sting jumped, and the door swung open. It was Rogue: a little bruised and paler than he ought to be on such a warm day, but still Rogue nonetheless. Their eyes met, and the relief that flooded Sting's body was so intense that his body swayed. He clutched the wall for support, smiling shyly at Rogue, who had made no movement into the room.

“Hello, Rogue.” Not as confident as Sting would have liked, but maybe more of an accurate portrayal of how he felt.

Rogue's eyes searched Sting's face- his pale skin and visible bone structure- and grimaced. “You're looking well.” Although it was a pleasant enough thing to say, Sting easily detected the sarcasm lurking in the shadows of those words. Rogue's voice was coarser than Sting remembered, and much deeper. His throat was no doubt sore from lack of use in recent days. Sting swallowed loudly.

“So are you. How are you feeling?” Sting motioned Rogue inside. With a hesitant step, Rogue complied, shutting the door behind him and blinking against the onslaught of darkness. It took Rogue less time then most to adjust to the shadows, and he manoeuvred himself to take the seat he usually occupied.

“Do you not want some light in here?” Rogue nodded towards the window.

“Oh, um, yeah. Of course.” Sting scurried towards it, pulling open the curtains and hoping that Rogue didn't notice the billow of week-old dust that flew from them. The outside was brighter than Sting remembered, and he had to compose his expression before he turned to Rogue again.

“That's better.” Sting sat stiffly into his usual chair opposite Rogue's. They both fell silent. Rogue seemed to be scanning something, but Sting could not tell what. He sniffed subtly, but the room seemed to smell the same to him as it always had. He found nothing that would interest Rogue, but that didn't stop his friend from going rigid in the chair.

Rogue stood, walked to the settee and reached behind it. Sting felt dizzy, a queasiness swaying his stomach when he realised that there was something that his nose had become so accustomed to, he would not detect it. Rogue turned around and lay five empty bottles of alcohol on the limp cushions. They both knew that there was more than that hidden around the flat, but instead of searching for them, Rogue merely sighed. He collapsed into the seat next the bottles, and Sting felt uneasy about this distance between them.

Rogue's eyes tried to meet Sting's, but they were denied the access. “Don't close yourself off to me again, Sting. Let me help you.” Rogue said. Sting's head snapped up at the warm familiarity of the tone. It was something which he had not heard in so long, but he had not realised how much he had missed it.

“I don't need any help.” Sting's jaw set, but his words were soft. He was sick of arguing with Rogue, and wanted to avoid confrontation if possible.

For once, the twin dragon's were not thinking alike. “Sting, who the _fuck_  are you trying to kid?! After everything that happened, everything we went through, you're still in denial about the whole thing!” Rogue rose again, tangling a hand in his hair and tugging at the dark strands. His other hand balled into a fist and flexed in anticipation.

“I'm grateful for everything that you did, Rogue, but I-”

“You're _grateful_? Sting, can you even hear yourself any more? The Sting that I knew wouldn't be as cowardly as this, running away from his problems through alcohol and trapping himself in one place.” As soon as Rogue had said it, his eyes filmed over, body falling slack.

Sting's blood pulsed in his forehead, and he resented the familiar ache. “Maybe I'm not the Sting that you knew.”

“Maybe you're not.” A whisper this time, filled with so much anger and regret and _sadness_  that Sting felt the craving for another drink nestle bitterly in the pit of his stomach.

This silence was thicker than the last, with so much being said and even more not. Rogue opened his mouth several times in what Sting assumed would be an apology, but it never came. Instead, Rogue got up and went to the kitchen. Sting buried his head in his shaking hands as he heard the taps running. Rogue returned with two glasses of water, and thrust one so sharply at Sting that the water overlapped and spilt onto Sting's trousers.

“You looked like you needed a drink.” Rogue mocked. With a roll of his eyes, Sting took the water and drank it all in long, quick gulps.

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, panting slightly in a shortness of breath. “Thanks.”

Rogue nodded, settling back in the chair and actually appearing more relaxed, like he used to in Sting's home. “I met Natsu-san on my way here.” Sting unconsciously leant forward, his clammy hands clasped firmly, and Rogue eyed Sting's reaction carefully.

“What did he say?” Sting's throat felt dry, and he eyed the empty glass wistfully.

“He was on his way here, actually. He wants to see you.” Rogue breathed out loudly, taking a sip of his water.

Sting walked over to the window and stared out onto the street below, no longer being able to look Rogue in the face. “Did he say why?”

“No, but he asked me to ask you if you would meet him tonight, at around 7 at the same place as last time? Natsu-san said that you would know what that means.”

The beach, the last time he had seen Natsu. As always, he had said something thoughtless and somebody he cared about had hated him for it. The bruise Natsu had given Sting had taken weeks to heal, and when Sting thought about it the memory of that punch still caused his left cheek to throb.

Sting didn't want to go. It was hard enough merely opening the door for his weekly delivery of shopping (of course, the only thing that he had ordered with toilet paper and booze, the bare essentials. Anything more, such as food, had been supplied by Yukino and for the most part ignored), so the thought of leaving the house and braving the bustle of town after weeks of solitude... Sting would be ashamed to admit it, but he was _afraid_. He had no idea how to react around people any more, and didn't trust himself enough to find out if he could still do it.

However, he knew that he had no choice. Natsu had reached out to him before, and Sting could not bring himself to reject that kindness further. Especially after everything that he said, Sting felt as though he owed Natsu. And if meeting him in public was the only way that he could pay Natsu back, then Sting knew that he was left with no choice but to grin and bare it.

“You'll go then.” Rogue stated, and Sting could see his quiet smile in the window's reflection.

Sting nodded stiffly, not turning away from the window yet. He heard the seat creak, and felt Rogue's hand press firmly against his shoulder.

“I'm proud of you, Sting.” Rogue's voice was softer again, and Sting turned to receive the pleased smile directly.

Sting moved out of the touch and stretched his limbs high above his head. “I'm gonna go get cleaned up, so you don't have to wait for me or anything...” Sting muttered awkwardly as he stood in front of his bathroom door.

“Okay then, I'll come back later to see if, if that's okay.” Rogue left no room for argument, as he usually didn't, and Sting felt a happiness spread through him at the normal way Rogue was speaking to him. There had been no mention of what had happened with Jiemma, and they only briefly discussed his dependency on drink. He did know that they had all of that to come, but Rogue seemed to know that Sting wasn't ready for that yet.

“Of course it is.” Sting smiled, and Rogue reciprocated, standing up and heading towards the door. Sting heard the door lock upon Rogue's exit, and walked into the bathroom to prepare himself for his meeting with Natsu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is slightly more optimistic, I think, but I'm not sure how long that will last... *nervous laughter* I have the next two chapters planned, and I know exactly where this story is heading, so... yeah. I'll try and upload more frequently aha. I hope you enjoyed this, and don't forget that you can message me on tumblr (@ice-bringer) at any time!


	9. I Look Up to God but I See Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sting and Natsu have a much needed talk, and Sting hears some things which he probably doesn't want to hear.
> 
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> Follow me on tumblr: @ice-bringer  
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> Or on Snapchat: snowballfury

The evening air was stale and alien against Sting's skin. It's bite made his neck blotchy with cold, its caress causing him to shiver. Sting tugged Rogue's scarf higher around his neck. He had owned it for long enough to claim it as his own, but still felt a pang of fond guilt when he thought about 'borrowing' from his best friend. Not that Rogue had minded; he had offered the grey wool readily, and had never asked for its return.

He earned some shocked stares and accusing whispers as he strolled down the street, but he tried to not let them bother him. Everyone must know what had happened, and yet nobody approached him over it. For that, Sting was grateful. He carried on walking, ignoring the gazes of strangers and pretending as though this attention was nothing more than the usual reaction he got when he returned home from a job. Public attention was not something that he was unfamiliar with; he was a famous member of the Sabertooth guild, after all.  

It was not market day, so the streets were not bustling with as many people as they usually were. Sting was almost _enjoying_ the stretch of his legs and the odd flicker of warmth as the sun peered uncertainly from behind the dull clouds, when the sudden and shrill screaming of a woman sounded loud and eerie in the almost-silence. Sting turned in the direction of the noise, his dragon slayer hearing immediately detecting the exact location of the woman in need. Blood thrummed in his ears as Sting pounded the worn cobbles to find the distressed woman, the search leading him down a deserted alleyway. A woman was hunched in the corner, facing away from Sting, her black hair tied messily an hanging down her back. She was still yelling.

“Do you need any help?” Sting flinched when she jumped at his speech, her legs seeming unable to support her as she stumbled.

“Please, please help!” Her eyes were frantic and blotchy, tears still falling down her puffed-out cheeks.

“What do you need?” Sting was weary this time, his voice guarded. She seemed... highly-strung. He wasn't sure how to react to her panicked chaos.

She took another shaky step forward, eyes darting all around the floor between them. Suddenly, her eyes swept up Sting's body to meet his own. Her gaze was lucid, her voice even. “To find my son.”  

There was a second of silence as Sting processed the answer, before he jogged towards the nameless mother. “What's his name?”

“Lukas.” She said, tearing up again.

Sting placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I promise you in the name of my guild that I will help to bring your son home.”  

Her whole face welled with emotion as she fell against his chest with an aching sob. Sting held her for a second, awkwardly patting her in comfort, until she released him with a graceless sniffle. “I'm Elina.” She offered him a tanned, trembling hand, which he received with a firm shake of his own.  

“Do you have anything of his?” Sting inquired, stuffing his hands in his pockets as his mind and body reeled with the thought of actual human contact. After weeks of nothing but Yukino, Lector and his own diseased mind, interacting with another person was strange. _But not in a bad way,_ Sting noted in shock.  

Immediately, Elina began to rustle around in the satchel that hung from her shoulder. “This is favourite bear, Mr. Snuggles. Please find him; he's only six!” That desperate tone was the product of a parent's love, something Sting knew he had limited knowledge of. Although he resented that fact, it steeled his determination to help this woman and her child. He snatched the dirty toy from Elina and sniffed it hard. It smelt like crusted saliva and mouldy food, but underneath there was something earthy and bitter, something _human_. Sting handed the bear back to Elina. The air in the alleyway was tainted by urine, rubbish and- Sting blanched- the scent of semen, all of which clogged Sting's nose and prevented him from smelling anything further than the end of the alley. He propelled himself onto the bins using the strength in his arms and took a long inhale of fresher air. Sting broke out into a massive grin, leaping down to the ground again to face the dumbfounded woman.  

“Follow me; I've found your son.” He broke into a sprint, not bothering to check if Elina was following him or not.

The pavement felt less harsh under Sting's feet as adrenaline burned through his veins, nose twitching every few seconds to check that he was still on the right trail. Elina's short, sharp breaths could be heard a few feet behind Sting, and he slowed down to a jog in order to keep in pace with her.

“I'm Sting of Sabertooth, by the way.” He wasn't breathless, but the words still sounded winded and forced. Sting was still reeling with the knowledge that everyone knew how weak he had been, but this woman did not seem to be the type of person to pass judgement or be unnecessarily rude. Instead, her steps faltered and she stumbled to a stuttering halt.  

“Sting...san?” Panic contorted her features, and Sting could smell the negative change in her hormones. He stopped to face her, clutching her hand which fell limp in his grip.  

“Elina-san! What's wrong, Elina-san?” Sting glanced quickly from her face to behind him, painfully aware that the changing winds would make it more difficult for him to follow the trail. He tugged her arm once, and the storm over her features passed just as quickly as it occurred.  

“Nothing, let's go. Was it this way, you said?” She pulled her hand from Sting's and walked ahead of him. Knowing that he had no choice but to trust her, Sting followed with a frown. Her hormones still smelt messed up, but her face held a practised composure which Sting felt was somehow familiar. He began jogging again.  

They continued through town until the were on the edge of a park. Elina pointed breathlessly at the shops on the opposite side of the road.

“His father works there.” She gestured to a sweet shop with brightly lit windows and a colourful paint job.  

Sting tried the air again. “He's not in the direction of the shop; he's somewhere in the park.”  

They began running again, but Sting could sense that Elina's fatigue was growing, her body not used to being pushed to such limits. Currently, she was being driven on pure emotion alone; it was evident in the hard-set line of her eyebrows and the determined flex of her jaw. The park wasn't large, and it wasn't long before they reached its end, rose bushes and tall grass lining the old metal fencing that held the park together.

Sting sniffed the air again for reassurance, but he saw that he was right before he smelt it. A young boy was curled in the grass, head bent down to his tucked up knees and body quivering. The glossy, ebony shade of his hair made it obvious that he was Lukas, and the noise Elina made, caught somewhere between a squeal and a sob, was confirmation enough. Besides, the pair even smelt the same to Sting, something which he could notice now that the two were together. Lukas raised his head, eyes bleary and frightened. Immediately, they filled with tears.  

"Mama!" He exclaimed, unfolding himself from the grass to waddle into his mother's open arms. Elina lifted him from the ground and breathed into his hair deeply, his tiny, stubby fingers finding their way into the fabric of her cardigan. 

"It's okay baby, Mama's got you." She soothed his cries and his shirt with her motherly nature, and Sting felt his own emotions tighten his chest. Just as he was about to leave, Elina looked up from her son's arms and spoke to him.

"Sting-san, thank you so much. Could I maybe speak with you for a second?"  

"Of course." Sting replied, still aware over how late he was running. He knew that Natsu would understand the reason behind his absence, but after the way things were left the last time they were together... Sting knew that being unpunctual would not look great.

Elina grasped her son's hand tightly and led him through the park, allowing him to babble about what he had seen and how he had tried to find his father's shop but had gotten lost in the tall grass. She listened intently, commenting when needed and scolding in the true parental fashion when he told her that he had spoken to a stranger. Lukas' tears had stopped now, and Sting marvelled at how quickly children were able to recover from dire situations, his feet dragging slightly in the grass as he followed behind the mother and son.  

They crossed the road in a content silence, until Elina pressing a coin into Lukas' hands and told him to run along and buy a sweetie from his father's work place. As soon as her son was out of sight, she began rooting around in her purse again.  

Sting scratched his neck awkwardly. "Um, this wasn't a paid request. I don't want money from it."  

"Oh,' She froze, her lip quivering unsurely. "Is it alright if I give you something else, instead? A different sort of payment, you could say."

"I, er, guess so?" Sting frowned, not confident in what the protocol was for this kind of ‘job’.

"I have a cousin in Sabertooth called Leanne, you may have heard of her?" When Elina got nothing other than a vacant response in return, she laughed. Sting did not socialise well with the other members of his guild, and only knew well the elite wizards who were the pride of Sabertooth.

"No, I'm afraid I don't." Sting muttered bashfully.

"That's okay, it's not really important. Here, have this." Elina handed Sting a folded piece of paper. On the inside was written a number and a name: 'Dr. Carmel'.

Sting looked up quizzically.  

"I know his name is kinda weird, but he's honestly incredible." Elina said.

"Who is he?" Sting frowned at the paper, and then at the woman.

Elina sighed unsurely, biting the skin around her thumb before answering. "Leanne told me why you really attacked your guild. Not the nonsense that's circulating the gossip groups, the actual truth of the matter." Although her smile was kind, Sting still felt the colour drain from his features.  

Elina turned her back to Sting, making her way towards the door of the sweet shop. "His name was Jae."

"Who was 'Jae'?" Sting was growing irritated at all of the games and just wanted an answer. As a result, his tone was crisper than it should have been, sharper.

Before she reached the entrance of the shop, Elina craned her neck to face Sting with a watery smile. "The man who abused me."  

The wind felt colder somehow, and Sting began shivering. He could not face this right now, not when Natsu had waited so long for him already. Instead, Sting scrunched the paper into the deepest part of his jacket and turned up his coat as far as it would go, hiding as much of his face as he could. Of course people knew the truth; he was naïve to think that they wouldn't. Every passing glance now had Sting shaking anxiously as he wondered how many of these people really _knew_. For once, Sting appreciated how much more terrifying word-of-mouth could be when compared to the fist-of-man.  

However, there were no tears left. Instead, that emotional despair was replaced by a stony coldness that wrapped around Sting's feelings and sank them to the pit of his stomach, where they remained until he reached the beach.  

The cinnamon scent seemed to be fused more securely with peppermint, and Sting blushed when he realised the smell was a testimony to how intimate Natsu was with his partner. After every encounter with Jiemma, Sting had vigorously scrubbed his body with strong scented soap or, failing that, bleach. He didn’t want to smell that man on himself, or have Rogue smell it either, so struggled to comprehend how a person could welcome the smell of another, especially _another man_...  

Sting shook his hand quickly, fingers pressed hard against his temples. These destructive thought are what caused the initial argument with Natsu; he had to control them. The relationship between Natsu and Gray was nothing like what Sting had experienced with Jiemma; it was filled with fiery passion and a firm, unwavering amount of loyalty and love. Most of all, it brimmed with trust and consent, two things Sting had never experienced with a partner. He had to repeat these things to himself in silence for fear that Natsu might overhear and regret even turning up at all.  

"Sting! I thought you weren't going to make it." Natsu beamed excitedly, reaching his hand forward to grab Sting in a headlock and ruffle his hair.

"How could I miss this." Sting rolled his eyes sarcastically, pushing himself from Natsu's solid embrace and fighting the grimace of his features at the unexpected contact.

"If you had tried to skip out on me I would have come to your apartment and kicked your ass." Natsu nudged Sting playfully, but still Sting bristled.

"Well, we both know that you could have." Sting's tone was flat, and caused a silence to force its way between them. Natsu looked at Sting them, deeply and unabashedly, but Sting did not meet the intense gaze.  

The beach was virtually empty, with the high-winds and darker nights causing most people to stay locked-up in their homes. Sting felt the emptiness now, and almost wished that more people would fill it so that this meeting with Natsu would feel less intimidating. He knew that he had to apologise for what he had said, but his throat felt dry and words were lost to him. Sting swallowed repeatedly in an attempt to lubricate his courage, but still he could not say what he desperately needed to.

"I'm sorry, Sting."

Natsu's voice was small, his words fractured. He looked at Sting with a formidable sincerity that immediately had heat rushing into Sting's features. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Natsu had done nothing wrong, only stuck up for his love when Sting had insulted it. Sting didn't think that was a reason to apologise.  

"Natsu-san-"

"I could have helped, Sting! If I had known, I could have helped..." Natsu's fists balled up by his sides, heat already radiating from them. There was a moment of disorientation as Sting realised that they were no longer talking about their argument.  

"If only I had fucking known!" Natsu swivelled on his heel, his fists impacting loudly with the stone barrier behind them. Dust billowed between them, and Sting choked on the polluted air.  

"Natsu-san..." Sting looked on sadly. Natsu breathed heavily, eyes screwed shut and red with the force of Natsu's emotions. His teeth were bared but ground together, and Sting knew there was nothing he could say in that moment to ease Natsu's guilt. Sting struggled to comprehend why Natsu would blame himself for what had been happening; they spent so little time together, Natsu would hardly notice if Sting's behaviour were to change. People like Rogue and Lector, they would have been more suspecting of Sting's actions. They must have been feeling the same as Natsu, if not worse. Sting gulped dryly, casting his eyes to the night sky.

"I knew something was different." Natsu said coldly.

"What?" Sting's eyes darted down to Natsu. His face hardened, a muscle flickering in his jaw as he tried to look anywhere but at Sting.

"The last time we met, you smelt... off. Not like you, and not like Rogue. Not like the cats, either. I didn't know it then, but I guess you smelt like _him_."  

Sting was grateful that his name had not been mentioned. Still, he felt an irrational anger flare up inside. "And you never thought to ask?"

Natsu flinched. "You're in a different guild, and it's natural to smell like your comrades! I just- I thought that maybe somebody new was on your team, or that maybe you had a girlfriend or something." When Natsu's lower lip began to shake, Sting deflated.  

"It's okay, Natsu-san. You could never have known."

"Still... I'm so sorry, Sting. I'm sorry that you had to go through this at all, but even sorrier that you did it alone. I'm sorry that we took so long to work it out, and that there is no way for us to make this easier for you." Natsu's sincerity shook Sting, his eyes large and intense as they finally made contact with Sting's own. "Most of all, I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you. I know it's probably too late, but Sting please believe me when I say that I will try my hardest to be there for you now, whatever you need of me."

Unable to express his true emotions in words, Sting numbly nodded and crossed the distance between them, pulling Natsu into a rib-shattering embrace.

"Thank you, Natsu-san, but you do realise that there was nothing that you could have done?" Sting whispered against Natsu's neck, voice still hoarse and quavering.

"Sting-"

"There was nothing that anybody could have done. Not even me. I was in too deep, and I don't think I even _wanted_  help from any of you. I thought I could do it by myself, that I needed to become stronger. I see now that, maybe that wasn't the case." Sting pulled away from Natsu and smiled carefully. Natsu looked as though we wanted to argue further, but when Sting's shoulders seemed to slump and his eyes were more fragmented in their gaze, Natsu closed his mouth tightly

"I'm also sorry, for what I said about you and Gray-san. That was wrong of me, and I didn't mean it." Natsu's mouth was slack, clearly taken aback by Sting's apology.  

Natsu's petulant pout filled out his bottom lip. "You don’t have to apologise."  

"Yes, I do. I hurt you, and I'm sorry for that." Sting was pleased with how level his voice sounded.  

"I don't blame you, Sting, and you've helped me to not blame myself. Can we just agree on a mutual non-blaming party here?" Natsu's expression changed as easily as the day becomes night, and Sting felt his own emotions turn with it, carried along the tide and pulled by the crescent moon smile Natsu was offering him.

Sting nodded in affirmation. "That sounds good."  

Another silence, but this one more soft and thoughtful, nestled between them. The sun had set now, and the automatic street-lacrimas were lighting up the sand and reflected off of the sea.  

"Let Rogue look after you. He really does care, you know." Natsu spoke after a moment. There were layers to Natsu's gaze and speech that Sting wasn't sure he understood. Nonetheless, he smiled and nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, Rogue's great. I really couldn't have asked for a better friend."  

Natsu stared at him, wide-eyed and unblinking. When he spoke next, his voice was steady and slow, as if explaining something difficult to a toddler.  

"You don't get it, do you?" Natsu said.  

Sting blushed at the tone which hinted at being condescending, but still didn't understand what Natsu was implying.  

"Get what?"  

"I never told you how me and Gray got together, did I?" Natsu stretched his arms above his head, muscles going taunt underneath his tanned skin. Sting wasn't sure how this jump in conversation was relevant, but shook his head anyway.  

"It was Juvia." Natsu's smile was weak and reminiscent. Sting raised his brows in shock.  

"Doesn't she love Gray?"  

Natsu grimaced. "I... Guess she did. Or still does. I try not to think about it." He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, eyes becoming hard and brows a serious, regretful line.  

"What did she have to do with you and Gray?" Sting was eager to change the conversation to something he would want to talk about: Gray. Sting was right, and the mention of Natsu's love made the fire wizard's feature brighten immediately.  

"She came up to me one day, close to tears and shaking with anger. At first I couldn't get what was up with her, especially when she started prodding me in the chest. Girls have sharp nails, Sting! It freakin' hurt." Natsu shivered, before straightening himself up and meeting Sting's interested gaze once again. "But she had something important to tell me, according to her. Do you know what it was?"  

"Something about you and Gray?" Stun guessed after a moment. Natsu nodded.  

"She said 'Gray-sama looks at Natsu-san like Juvia looks at Gray-sama, so Natsu-san has to take care of Gray-sama instead of Juvia.' Then she burst into tears and Magnolia fell into the deepest storm it has seen for centuries. I asked Gray what she meant and he told me how he felt. And that was that, really." Natsu's lips fell into a crooked line, his cheeks a bashful shade of pink.  

"That's sweet." Sting's words came out more monotonous than he intended, but he still didn't understand how this could possibly relate to Rogue and himself.  

Natsu rested against the wall and looked up at the sky. Constellations were smudged over the charcoal black of the sky with loan stars peppered in between, and Sting couldn't help but watch them as well.  

"I still don't think that I really understood Juvia's words until now." Natsu moved to rest his hand on Sting'a shoulder, heat spreading pleasantly under his fingertips. "Rogue looks at you like Gray looked at me. It took me years to realise, and even then I had to have a push in the right direction. This is your push."  

Natsu's grip on Sting's shoulder became a fist, and he forced Sting back a couple steps with one powerful lurch. Even without that nudge, Sting wasn't sure that he would have been able to support his own weight. He stumbled, falling flat onto the sand behind him. Natsu seemed to be torn over something, but then his face smoothed out and he extended a hand, helping Sting up.  

"Don't leave it too long before you come to Fairy Tail, okay?"  

Sting didn't have it in him to reply. Natsu hesitated only slightly, heading back to Fairy Tail with his hands folded behind his head as he walked.  

Sting stared at the sea numbly, the sound of waves lapping against the resultant shore the only thing filling his vacant mind.  

According to Natsu, Rogue was in love with him. Sting was sure that that wasn't the case, as he knew Rogue better than anyone. He could tell how many hours sleep Rogue had had based on how he rolled his 'r', so was confident that he would be able to notice if Rogue was keeping something this monumental from him.  

Their synchronisation was a two-way system, Sting realised with a growing feeling of unease. Jiemma had been... _using_... Him for years before Rogue had realised, and he knew Sting in the same detail that Sting knew Rogue. When people care about someone deep enough, it makes it easier for them to open up, but also to hide things away. He had experienced that better than anyone. Sting's feeling of unsettlement become a full-blown sickness, and he stumbled through the streets with a fist clenched firmly on his stomach.  

There were few people on the street by this time, and Sting was grateful for it. After spending so long in virtually nothing but his own company, Sting felt exhausted by the interactions he had endured today. First, Elina's gesture which stemmed from nothing but her kind heart, and then Natsu's revelation which, the more Sting thought about it, seemed to be founded in at least a basic level of truth.  

Still clutching his lurching stomach, Sting went to seek comfort in the best way he knew how. The door to the tavern was open, and Sting made sure to leave any reservations he had on the obnoxious 'welcome' mat which greeted him as he took a shaky breath and pushed his way inside.


	10. I Can Never Be What You Want Me To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot shorter than most, however the next one will be over three times its size. I just had to cut it off at the point I did because... reasons. Reasons which will become very clear in the next chapter. I do apologise, though.
> 
> Follow/message me on tumblr- @ice-bringer

Sting felt heavy. He could not move his limbs, and his eyes saw nothing but an all-encompassing darkness. Any words that pierced this thick haziness fell broken and fragmented on Sting's ears. And what he heard made no sense to him. 

Then again, what did make sense to Sting anymore? 

He had thought that he understood Rogue and their relationship, but if what Natsu had said was true... if Rogue really did feel that way about him... 

_Hello... the guild?_

This voice, so rough and unfeeling that Sting heard it clearly, was not one that he recognised. For the first time, Sting realised that he did not know where he was or who he was with. He still had no control over his body, and felt too disorientated to panic. Instead, Sting simply listened. 

_Can you come now?... closing up... he'll be left outside!... ten minutes._

The one-sided conversation continued to baffle Sting: who could this man- Sting assumed his gender due to the arrogant, commanding tone of his voice- possibly be discussing? 

Sting's head continued to swim as he remained laying on his side. He could feel the floor beneath him, and something warm and moist running down his chin and pooling at his neck. Sting thought that it was saliva, but the acid burning on his tongue told him that it was not. 

He wasn't sure how long he stayed on the floor for, feeling the cold bite into his side and his breath coming in uneven snorts against the side of his face. He tried to lift himself up,  but felt no movement. It didn't take him long to give up. A rush of nausea made Sting quiver, and he let himself fall back into a restless sleep, waiting to see who had been summoned to help him... this time. 

~'*'~ 

There was heat and pressure against Sting's body, and he groaned in his awakening. Strong arms enclosed around him, undeniably male and gravely familiar, and instantly Sting felt panic constrict his throat. This couldn't be happening- _not again_ - 

"I'm sorry for any trouble he has caused. I'll take responsibility for him now."  

That voice did little to soothe Sting.  

Although it had not belonged to Jiemma, like Sting had first feared, the smell of coconut shampoo which engulfed Sting as he was hoisted onto Rogue's back brought all thoughts which Natsu had planted to the front of Sting's mind.  

The gruff man grumbled about he was 'not a babysitter', and Rogue apologised again upon his exit from the pub. Rogue sounded distant, and Sting wasn't sure if that was because of Rogue's tone or the ringing which would not cease in his ears. 

Sting didn't fully appreciate Rogue's warmth until the cold air started to lap at his exposed skin, its tongue wet with condensation and chilled with the typical Fiore night air. If Sting had had control over his limbs, he would have wrapped himself closer around Rogue's body. However, his current position was all he had, and there was no way for him to communicate with Rogue to tell him to shift his body weight to a different angle that would shelter Sting from the cold and no doubt be more comfortable for the both of them. 

There was a slight colour of embarrassment on Sting's cheeks as he realised that, not for the first time, Rogue had to bail him out of an ugly situation. The only thing which stopped Sting's emotions from tipping into full-on mortification was the echo of Natsu's words which lurked at the back of Sting's mind like a loaded gun.  

Rogue sighed, his arms tightening around Sting's legs. "Why do you always hurt yourself, Sting? Don't you realise that you're not the only one that finds this painful?"  

The trigger was pulled, the force of it kicking back against Sting's heart and forcing him to acknowledge the bitter truth: Rogue was in love with him. There was no doubt now. He had spoken with such sincerity, such reverence, that Sting could deny it no more than he could deny that the sky was blue or the empty bottles, scattered like the bones  of an elephant's graveyard behind his furniture, belonged to him.  

Rogue's slow rocking as he carried Sting home made the blond feel sick anew, something which had only ever happened on transportation and never to someone whom he considered a friend. Just when the queasiness had began to coil around the base of Sting's throat, Rogue stopped with a drawn out grunt.  

There was a small pat on Sting's pocket before his keys were taken from him, followed by the ancient sound of wood creaking. Sting was then moving again, carried only so far until the familiar smell of his own bed greeted him. He was unceremoniously dumped onto the twisted, unmade sheets and left there whilst Rogue clattered carelessly around Sting's kitchen.  

The cool night air had helped Sting to sober up slightly, and by the time Rogue had sat down beside him, Sting had forced his eyes open. At first, he saw nothing but blurred colours and smudged shapes, but slowly things began to come into focus. Rogue's face- chillingly emotionless- was the first thing Sting registered.  

Hastily, Sting sat himself upright.  

Rogue held one of Sting's flannels in one hand. It was dripping water onto Rogue's cloths, the material darkening a shade with the moisture.  

"I take it things didn't go well with Natsu-san." Rogue asked, dampening the cloth into a basin which sat at the side of his feet. Sting followed the lethargic movements intensely, trying to avoid staring at Rogue's face for any period of time.  

" _Natsu-san_  is fine." Sting replied flatly. 

Rogue threw the cloth into the basin, causing droplets of water to flee the container and soak the ground around it.  

Sting met Rogue's gaze. He seemed exhausted. "So why, then, Sting? Why did you do this to yourself again?"  

Sting's jaw set. "He told me about you." 

"What about me?" Rogue froze in confusion, clearly struggling to comprehend how he had played any action in Sting's current intoxication. When he was met with nothing but silence, Rogue reached his wet hand forward and rested it on Sting's knee. Sting pushed it away ardently, eyeing the wet finger-marks with the same disgust as if they were the branding marks of a scalding iron.  

"How you feel about me." Sting spat out.  

Their eyes met, Rogue's fearful and Sting's peevish, and Rogue's complexion lightened to a shade paler than death itself.  

"S-Sting-" Rogue barely managed out. He made no move to deny the accusation, although Sting did search ineptly for it. Instead, Rogue's expression became desperate; lips parted and chest heaving, pleading with Sting to understand.  

Sting couldn't. 

Rogue reached for him again, the tips of his finger barely scratching Sting's forearm before Sting had flinched away. The room began to spin, and Sting realised he had avoided vomiting for too long. Now, it was too late. 

"Don't fucking /touch/ me!" He growled, staggering across the room until his fist could grab onto the toilet door and slamming it shut behind him. He made it just in time, his head knocking slightly against the hard ceramic before the liquid-content of his stomach was exposed to him once again.  

Rogue didn't try and follow him, and Sting was more than glad of it. At that exact second, he could think of nothing worse than being in Rogue's company.  


	11. If You Don't Love Me, Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My gaybies talking about their feelings and reaching compromises... bless
> 
> Follow/message me on tumblr: @ice-bringer
> 
> Also, about the ending... please don't hate me *ducks*

_It was dark, and cold. Sting was swaying, his eyes clamped shut as he stumbled blindly into a wall.  
_

_"Shit." He whispered, feeling an ache in his head which he could not blame entirely on his own clumsiness. Sting crawled through the door he had just missed, making keening noises as he pushed his way into the bathroom and lifted the toilet lid._

_The legal age of drinking in Fiore was fifteen, and Sting had only just turned that. He was now taking advantage of his 'coming of age', trying every type of alcohol his fingers could grasp at the expense of his better judgement. Having never been told what an awful idea drinking different alcohol at the same time can be, Sting was genuinely surprised when he found himself on his hands and knees, throwing up into his toilet._

_"You've got nobody to blame but yourself." Rogue's voice carried from the doorway. Sting turned to the sound, eyes filmed-over and blinking in an attempt to distinguish shapes in the dark. Sting's mouth opened to whisper Rogue's name, but instead acid clawed its way forward and Sting flung his head back into the cool, ceramic bowl._

_Instantly, Rogue was by his side, smoothing the hair from Sting’s sweat-soaked forehead and murmuring sweet fondness into Sting’s ear. Sting blanched and gagged further around his stomachs contents for what felt like an immeasurable amount of time, but in reality was only a few minutes._

_Rogue left Sting for only a brief moment, running the faucet of Sting's sink before kneeling back down next to his friend. Sting leant back against the bath, the cold ceramic a soothing balm against his feverish skin._

_"Why are you doing this?" Sting's voice was weak with exhaustion but strong with wonderment; he knew that nobody else would be there for him when he was like this- not even Lector- and yet Sting could not place a reason on Rogue's loyalty, and certainly did not think that he deserved it._

_Rogue rolled his eyes, reaching forward with a wet cloth and a sigh._

_"I'd feel responsible if you choked and died in your sleep." Rogue mused._

_Sting's eyes fluttered closed as Rogue wipes the cloth over his face and neck, taking particular care to trace the acid staining Sting's lips and wiping it away._

_As Rogue continued his work, Sting hummed in amusement, eyebrows slightly raised. Neither of them spoke until Rogue pulled his hand away and shifted his weight backwards so that it fell entirely on his knees. In confusion, Sting's eyes snapped open to meet Rogue's._

_"Because you would do the same for me." Rogue's expression was bashful but earnest, and Sting felt affection for his friend pool golden warmth in his chest._

_Sting's fingers shook with sickness as he reached forward, but his hold on Rogue's knee was strong. Definite._

_He made sure that Rogue's eyes were still on his face before he smiled and said, "Always, Rogue. Always..."_

~'*'~

Sting choked on the bile in his mouth, coughing it into the toilet and wiping his mouth with the quivering skin of his hand. The memory was distinct, despite happening over four years ago, and Sting was shocked by the impact it had on him. He had gotten drunk for the first time before Jiemma's abuse, but had only begun to use the bitter, liquid spirits as a way to lift his own from when he was sixteen.  

And Rogue had still been there, was _always_  there, with a kind smile and a bowl of warm water,  wiping back Sting's hair from his forehead and offering a breathless chastise for Sting's reckless behaviour. How many times had Sting relied on Rogue to carry him own, or clean him up, or help him into bed? Sting could not count them all, but knew for certain that the number was desperately high into the double figures. Rogue never asked for anything in return, and acted as though Sting's well-being was enough. Bitter-sweet tears pressed against Sting's eyes as he realised that was probably the case. Rogue had been nothing short of a saint to Sting, a guardian Angel when Sting had fallen into his own personal hell. And Sting had destroyed that Angel, shot it down and clipped it's wings without even consideration for how selfish he was being.

Rogue was not Jiemma. He was _not_. Rogue was considerate and gentle, and would give his all before he felt the need to receive anything in return. Jiemma, however, was selfish and plundered his way through life, taking whatever he wanted at his own leisure. Sting felt immeasurably guilty for even contemplating comparing the two, but that did not change one fundamental fact: gay relationships still repulsed him. Of course he wanted his friends to be happy, and would not hold any prejudices against Natsu or Rogue or anyone else for who made them happy and how they lived their lives, but Sting knew that he could not be a part of that world. Natsu and Gray had proven that two men could be in a tender relationship, one founded in a lifelong bond and a recognition that they were partners, equals. And despite not knowing how deep Rogue's feelings were, Sting knew that they would be pure. After all, Rogue had two-hundred-and-six bones in his body, and not one of them were selfish.

Sting knew that he did not- maybe _could not_ \- reciprocate Rogue's affection, and that he owed his friend one hell of an apology.  

Moving slowly in an attempt to quell his queasy stomach, Sting crawled his way over to the door. It was difficult to find the strength to pull up his upper-body, but on his third attempt Sting managed it. He grabbed the handle and thrust his entire body's weight on it, forcefully shoving the door open. It swung back and hit the wall behind it, and remained half-closed on the rebound. Sting shuffled back to the bath, his back pressed completely against it as he panted.

There was silence.

It was so thick and consuming that Sting felt as though he could suffocate in it. For a panicked moment, Sting tried to gain enough energy to move and see if Rogue had quit the apartment, but his legs quivered with any movement he attempted to make, his arms staying limp and uncoordinated by his sides.

Just as Sting released a broken sob, Rogue appeared in the doorway, as pale as a spirit and silent as a shadow.

"You're still here." Sting noted, his voice soft and watery.

"I'd feel responsible if you choked and died in your sleep." Rogue muttered with a half-smile. His red, swollen eyes mimicked Sting's own, and his words were rooted in the past. At that, Sting couldn't hold back any longer; he balled his fists against his eyes and cried in earnest.

Rogue didn't try and comfort him as he usually would, and that partly shocked Sting. However, he understood why Rogue was keeping his distance, and was grateful that his friend still respected him this much. When Sting  collected himself with a sniffled gasp, he peeked around his hand to look at Rogue. His head was lowered like that of a condemned man, his eyes screwed shut as he wept silently. Rogue was trying not to draw attention to himself, allowing Sting to deal with his own emotions before he even considered Rogue's. At this further act of selflessness, Sting almost began to cry again.

Instead, he reached behind him and turned on the faucets of the bath, the hot tap on full and the cold tap only slightly. At the sound of water running, Rogue glanced up. Sting averted his gaze and started to remove his clothing, struggling to lift his body enough to shook off his shirt and pull off his trouser. By the time the bath had run, Sting had only half-removed his shirt.  

"Do you- do you maybe need a... hand?" When Rogue's voice broke, he winced.  

Sting smiled awkwardly. "That... might be good. Yeah."  

There was only a small hesitance to Rogue's steps as he approached Sting, turning the bath off and kneeling down on the cold floor. Everything about him shook as he helped Sting out of his shirt. That much was fine, at least. When he reached down to the buttons on Sting's jeans, Sting flinched away. Not wanting to see the hurt look on Rogue's face, Sting shut his eyes and focused on breathing instead.  

Rogue helped him stand and pulled the trousers gently from Sting's legs. He left the boxers on, something he had never done before when they had done this previously; they had known each other for so long, nudity meant nothing to them. Until now. Sting's socks popped off along with his trousers, and he eyed Rogue up unsurely. Rogue simply smiled, helping Sting to ease into the water- which, Sting would admit, was a little too cold for his liking- and perched on the edge of the toilet lid, looking anxious.

"You probably need to flush that." Sting said, wrapping his arms around his knees and hugging them to his chest.

"O-oh! Yeah... right." Rogue groped behind him for the flusher, pulling the lever down and letting the cleaning rumble of the toilet sound in the otherwise quiet room.  

"Could you... get the shampoo?" Sting mumbled against his knees, blushing heavily. He had no idea what to say now, or how to act. There were certain things he used to do with Rogue, things which he had never particularly thought about, which now seemed awkward and inappropriate. And yet, Sting didn't want anything between them to change. It was selfish of him, he knew, but Rogue's friendship was exactly what he needed, and he didn't want it to be any different than what he remembered it to be.  

Rogue stood up stiffly, frantically eyeing the room around him. "Of course!"  

He knew where it was kept- where _everything_  in Sting's house was kept- and yet Rogue clumsily knocked item after item down, as though he could not figure out where anything was or how to coordinate himself. Rogue soon found the berry-scented concoction, as well as a jug, and brought them both over to Sting. Silently, Rogue swept a jug full of water from the bath and drizzled it over Sting's blond hair. As the warm water trailed over Sting's back, he shuddered.  

"Am I okay to-?" Rogue shook the bottle in his hand. Sting nodded.  

Rogue squirted a coin-sized circle of shampoo onto his palm and then rubbed both hands together, warily eyeing up Sting before he threaded his fingers into Sting's hair and massaged the shampoo in.  

"I'm sorry, Rogue." Sting said, closing his eyes again.

"It's okay, I understand why I would repulse you." Rogue muttered sadly. Sting's eyes flew open, his hand darting out to snare Rogue's wrist in his own grip.  

Their eyes met sharply. "You _do not_  repulse me, okay? What I said back there, that was me being a thoughtless ass; I didn’t mean it."  

Rogue seemed unconvinced. "But, Sting-"

"Don't 'but Sting' me, Rogue! I have this... issue with two men being together, but that is my problem alone and has nothing to do with you. I just- I can't be what you want me to be, Rogue. I'm broken and _dirty_ , and you deserve so much better! You're so good, Rogue, so good and so kind, and I- I _hurt_  people! I hurt you! And yet here you are still, helping me and nursing me and I just _do not deserve it_. You'll meet someone someday who- who looks at you like Gray-san looks at Natsu-san, and whether they are male or female, it doesn't matter to me. I just want you to be happy, Rogue, and I can't do that for you."  

By the end of his speech, Sting was shaking. Rogue had stopped the gentle caresses of his hand and was staring with a melancholy so deep, Sting was sure it could eclipse the sun.

"You- you _do_  make me happy, Sting. Even being like this, just friends... it's enough for me." Rogue whispered.

"You shouldn't let it be enough! You deserve something more than this, Rogue! Even I can see that." Sting's voice rose, and Rogue leant away from its severity.

"I'm sorry..." Rogue trembled, unsure what else he could say.

Sting sighed. "No! No... it's not your fault. I just- I need some time. I need to date other people- probably women- and get used to intimacy. At the moment, sex is linked to fear, and the fear is connected with men and men alone; I wouldn't be able to be in a relationship when my head is like that, it wouldn't be fair on either of us. I don't even know what my sexuality is; that- that _bastard_  fucked me up before I really gave it any thought, and now my aversion to men is pretty deep. Can we just- be friends? At least for now..." Sting's throat was sore from all of his talking and the drinking he had done early.

Rogue's expression became hopeful. "For now?" He repeated.

"This isn't a promise or a pledge or any of that shit, this is merely an 'I don't know where the fuck my head is, but I owe it to you to find out', okay?" Sting said, his voice rough.  

As he was now, Sting did feel repulsion at the idea of being with any man. But Rogue... he wasn't _just_  any man, and Sting felt as though the only way he could repay the kindness and care Rogue had always shown him was to at least organise his thoughts into something coherent enough to be an answer.  

Was he attracted to Rogue? At that moment, the answer was no. He could appreciate why somebody would be attracted to him; Rogue's hair was a soft ebony, his eyes intense with feeling, but a warm scarlet in shade. He was also extremely bashful and awkward, and Sting understood with ease why anyone would fall for him. However, that was as far it went for Sting. Any thoughts of becoming intimate with Rogue led to vile memories being resurfaced, and Sting had to suppress a whimper at their recollection.

Rogue smiled happily. "That's more than I ever expected. Truly Sting, thank you."  

"Yeah, yeah..." Sting grumbled shyly. "The bath is getting cold."

"Oh, right!" Hurriedly, Rogue continued to wash Sting's hair, and then he rinsed it again with the jug.  

Tentatively, Rogue used the flannel to wipe up the remainder of Sting's sick, sweat, and crusted alcohol. By the time they had finished, the water was cold, and Sting shivered in it.

"Let me fetch you a towel." Rogue stood. Sting smiled in thanks, and waited patiently for Rogue to return.  

He managed to step out of the bath himself, and was already dripping onto the tiled floor when Rogue reappeared. Rogue stopped by the door, eyes going wide. It was only then that Sting realised, now that he was wet, his boxers were skin-tight and almost see-through. With a flustered growl, Sting snatched the towel's from Rogue's hands and covered his body.

"I... think I'd better go home now. Call me if you need me." Rogue stammered, turning away from the bathroom. He paused, waiting to see if Sting would object. He did not.

"Okay, thanks Rogue. See you tomorrow."  

"Yeah, see you." Rogue seemed deflated.

Sting had started to towel dry his hair by the time he heard his front door click shut.

He groaned, dropping the towels to the floor and sliding his boxers from his skin, moving out of the bathroom completely nude. Sting quickly grabbed a clean pair of boxers from the bag Yukino had left him, and pulled them on, crashing into bed with a grumble.

Sting knew he should eat something, but decided to wait until morning, or at least a time that wasn't four-fucking-am. Instead, Sting slowly slipped into slumber, thinking about his own personal issues, and how much Rogue deserved better.

~'*'~

When Sting entered Sabertooth the next day, it was the afternoon. He had slept until eleven and then showered quickly, throwing the towels and clothes from the night before into a hamper and made himself a slice of toast.  

Everyone was shocked to see him, but not unhappy about it. Some gave him wary, unsure looks, and others outright avoided him. However, for the most part, Sting was met with cheers and smiles which were so unexpected and heart-warming, that Sting actually felt as though he might make it through this.

But the words which had passed between himself and Rogue the night before played again and again in his mind like a broken lacrima, and Sting knew for certainty that he had to overcome his issues with intimacy before he even considered his sexuality.

What he needed was a women who knew about his issues and where they were founded, and did not judge him for it. Someone who was patient and kind, whom Sting trusted and who trusted Sting. Someone Sting could rely on, who was constant and unmoving.  

Sting could think of only one person who fit his needs, and he glanced anxiously around the guildhall, finally spotting her heading towards the stairs.

"Yukino!' He shouted, trying to get her attention and succeeding. "Can I ask you something?"  


	12. I Could Lend You Broken Parts That Might Fit, Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally... amirite kids...
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> please dont hate me?????

Lips, soft and eager, were working Sting's own chapped mouth into a damp plumpness, small fingers roaming confidently over his back and shoulder muscles. Sting shifted in his seat, leaning back to allow her full dominance over his body, which she accepted gratefully.  

The two months since Sting had promised Rogue to figure himself out had passed in a similar routine to this, with Sting dangerously toeing the line of what he was okay with and what he was not. He had not entered this feat alone of course, and his volunteer was more than willing to assist him in whatever way they both saw fit.  

Sting remembered the day he had approached Yukino and asked her to be his girlfriend. Understandably, the young girl had been stunned into silence, before blushing and stuttering out a response which boarded on incoherent. Eventually she had nodded, but there was something in the delicate knot in her brows and the way her slim fingers tied and untied a ribbon into an anxious ball that told Sting that something wasn't quite right. It was only later that Yukino had revealed the reasons behind her uncertainty, which Sting had put easily to rest.  

From then on, they told everyone that they were dating. On the outside, they were the perfect couple; romantic, but not overly affectionate. Close, but not too clingy. On the inside however, where no one else could interfere, they had a secret. A pact which kept them clinging to one another as they blindly stumbled through the beginning of a new relationship.  

Telling Rogue had been the hardest.  

He just smiled, congratulating the 'happy couple' and patting Sting calmly on the shoulder. On the surface, he showed no signs of anger or torment. He did not shout, or cry, or react in any way which would not be expected from a best friend. Sting wondered if it would hurt as much if he had reacted badly. He didn't think that it would. 

The rest of the guild remained interested for a week, if that, but Rogue frequently asked about their relationship, as cheerfully as Rogue ever was in public. He appeared to only have a passive interest in his closest friend, but Sting knew the truth: Rogue wanted to know how Sting was dealing with his issues with intimacy, and if being with a woman was as bad as being with a man. It was to start with, and Sting had panic attacks any time Yukino so much as touched him in a way that he was not used to. Or that he was /too/ used to. But now, these attacks happened far less often. Yukino knew her boundaries, and Sting recognised his. They worked together to help them both grow, and Sting slept easier at night knowing that this relationship was mutually beneficial. He wasn't the only one with issues to overcome, after all.  

Yukino's hands continued to grope at Sting's shoulders, but slowly they shifted. Her kisses became harder, deeper. A distraction. When Sting felt the buttons of his shirt being undone, his eyes flew open. He watched her fingers work, nails painted to a shining lapis point, and Sting let those hands comfort him. /His/ hands were large, sweaty, and covered in hair. Yukino's were the average size of a girl verging on womanhood, and they were warm, but not callous. Sting /liked/ the feeling of her fingers touching him, a feeling he clung to desperately.  

The illusion shattered soon after. 

Her hand brushed over his chest, gently ghosting over Sting's nipple. It was too much. He pulled back with a grimace, horrific memories teasing the edge of his sanity.  

"That's enough, Yukino." He kept his voice emotionless to avoid concern. It did not work. 

Yukino frowned, tucking a rogue strand of hair back behind her ears. "But Sting-sama, you were okay with this much last week." 

"I know, I'm sorry. Can we try again tomorrow?" He said, tensing. Sting felt like a failure, as though he was regressing rather than making the progress Yukino expected of him. She placed her palms flat on the settee cushion between Sting's legs and leant forward, eyes drifting shut as she placed a lingering kiss on Sting's cheek. 

"Whatever you need." She smiled sweetly. 

They both rectified their clothing, with Yukino fluffing out her hair and Sting putting on his shoes. Once he had finished doing the latter, Yukino pouted playfully and slid her fingers into Sting's grasp. 

"Is Sting-sama going already?" 

He laughed breathlessly as the muscles in his arms stretched over his head, Yukino's hand falling limp on his knee. "I'm going to grab us ice-cream. Strawberry is your favourite, right?"  

She nodded. "I could come with you, if you'd like?"  

Her words were cautious, a clear debate ongoing over her features on whether or not she was being too intrusive. Quite often after their meetings, Sting required some time alone. Yukino had never protested this until one day she had found Sting curled in on himself, crying in earnest and barely able to stand. Since then Yukino had become more perceptive and careful, but never too pushy. She knew that Sting would tell her if there was a real problem, and he could not think of any.  

"It's okay. If you stay here and get ready, once we've enjoyed our ice-cream we could go to the guild? It's been a while since we took a job." As he spoke, Sting grabbed his jacket from the back of the settee and threaded his arms through it.  

"I was thinking... maybe we should invite Rogue-sama and Frosch-sama on our next mission." Yukino eyed Sting like he was a landmine; one wrong step, and he would implode.  

Sting hated to think that he appeared to be that fragile. Forcing a smile, he met Yukino's eyes. 

"Yeah, that might be nice. I know Lector misses Frosch when he's not around, although he would never admit that." Sting shrugged weakly, turning to face the door. They both fell silent, the air between them filled with the words they could not bring themselves to say. 

Yukino coughed lightly. "Well, it's something for Sting-sama to think about."  

Feeling no need to reply, Sting merely threw a crooked smile over his shoulder and headed out into the day. 

 

~'*'~ 

It was... strange, being with Yukino. Sometimes Sting felt guilty that would never be able to get used to it. Sometimes he felt guilty that he could. But no matter which way he looked at it, his relationship with Yukino was nothing more than a façade, an elaborate plan both of them had conjured up as a way to escape the issues that they both really needed to face.  

They were never going to last, and they both knew it. 

This, what they had now, was nothing more than companionship and self-help. Yukino provided the warmth of a mother, the excitement of a lover, and the ear of a best friend. He knew that he was lucky to have her. However, Sting also knew that Yukino's future was shining, brilliant, and full of light. No matter what, Sting wanted Yukino to be happy, and would do anything to aid her in achieving these goals. She had been nothing if not a moral compass and loyal support for him, it was the least he could do for her. She would soon surpass him in her brilliance, and he would be there, encouraging her with every step she took.  

His feet seeming to know what he needed most, and Sting hardly noticed that he was standing outside the alleyway where he had met Elina before the domineering shadows were looming over him. The card she had given him was nestled deep into his drawers, but he had not thrown it away; Sting knew that he needed the help, would be grateful at receiving it, and thought that maybe now was the appropriate time for him to do so.  

The streets around him were dead, with very few folk for Sting to worry about. Aimlessly, he wandered into the shroud of the alley, unconcerned with how the light was beginning to disappear and unaffected by the putrid stench it still harboured. Instead, Sting trailed his fingers over the grimy brickwork, mind lost in fond thoughts of that day. Although their encounter was brief, what happened with Elina had been a huge step for Sting. She showed him that he was still useful to people, that he was more than just a broken doll that society no longer wanted to play with. She proved that he could give as much as he needed to take, and he would forever be grateful for the caring advice she had offered. As soon as Sting felt he was 'better', he was determined to make her a visit, to show her that her beautiful nature had touched more than just her immediately family. 

Through all of this listlessly dreaming, Sting was not paying attention to the way that the world rotated and turned around him.  

He didn't even smell them coming.  

"Did no one ever tell you it was dangerous to be down an alley by yourself?" A man's voice sneered mockingly, and Sting instantly swivelled to face the speaker. 

He was greeted by a group of four men and one woman, all of varying heights and builds. The tallest one was also the stockiest, and he was spearheading the group. Each donned their own mask, which Sting assumed related to each of their magic types. The leader's mask was completely black, with two red slits for his eyes to peer through, and a a crimson smile cut all the way to the apple of his cheeks. 

Sting knew that he could take them all down with ease, and smiled to himself at the stupidity of people who were willing to confront the son of a dragon. 

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that it was dangerous to challenge a member of Sabertooth to a fight?" Sting grinned, taking a defiant step towards the gang. Only he didn't move, not even an inch. His feet never even left the ground, knees remaining stiff and rigid.  

"Haha, stupid tiger hasn't noticed!" The girl chortled cruelly, lips peeling back underneath her pastel pink and blue mask, like dripping paint, to reveal a set of warped, flaxen teeth.  

Sting cringed. _The shadows_. How had he not noticed? The shadows were thicker here than they should be at this time of day, and now they were laced and looped around his lower legs, rooting him in place. It was inconvenient for Sting, but if there was anything that could oppose shadows it was light. 

"Holy dragon's shimmering beacon!"  

Light poured from Sting's body, causing the team of people to shriek as wave after wave of blinding glow vibrated over them. The shadows around Sting dissipated, and he yelled in triumph. 

"Binding snake secret technique: adamantine manacle." A reed of a young man threw the writhing magical creature at Sting, who was forced to his knees by the powerful object. His mask only covered the top half of his face, and was bright yellow. A green and red snake was curved around his eyebrow, and Sting could have sworn that he saw it move around the mask.  

No matter what branch of dragon slayer magic he tried to use, Sting was helpless against the snake; it repelled magic energy and could not be broken by brute strength alone. He would have to take down the magic user who controlled the snake in order to be freed, and that was seeming very unlikely in his current position.  

The presumed leader of the group had recovered from Sting's dazzling attack, and was staring with dire intent at the strained arch of Sting's neck. 

"A dragon slayer, huh? I heard that you had quite a run-in with master Jiemma recently." 

Sting stiffened, every single muscle in his body tensing and then going slack in morbid defeat. Was there anyone in this damn town who didn't know about Sting's private life? 

"That's right!' The woman clapped gaily, skipping forward until she could grab a fist of Sting's unruly blond hair, and pulled it hard. "I heard he liked to take it from behind. Do you think we should test that theory, Adder?" She ran a chipped nail dangerously up the angle of Sting's jaw, and he glared menacingly back. 

"Now, Black-widow, we need to treat our local guild members with more respect! A dirty alley simple won't do at all... what do you say we load him into the van and play later?" Adder said sweetly, causing everyone around him to jeer at the suggestion.  

"Bandit, do you think you could keep him quiet for me?"  

"Of course." The skinny one replied, producing another snake bind from his coat pocket. He placed the tail end on Sting's cheek, and the faux snake slithered happily until it was forcing Sting's mouth shut. When he tried to make a cry for help, the snake restricted around his head, and Sting's eyes watered with the effort it took to breathe. 

He was left utterly helpless, at the mercy of this sadistic group of criminals. _It was happening again!_ Sobs were being suppressed only by the binds, and Sting felt his body shaking with the weight of his terror. He was so weak, so _pathetic_ , that he would never be able to defend himself. No matter what happened, or how far he came, he would never be more than this; a victim. Sting felt the vehement thoughts of hatred brewing in the back of his mind, a sensation that he had slowing grown accustomed to ignoring. He could only do that because he had grown strong. He was not weak, he was a Sabertooth wizard! One small run-in with a group of delinquents did not change that, and Sting could not let it.  

Sting sat up straight, back rigid and eyes daring someone to make the next move. In that moment, no matter how much the odds were stacked against his success, Sting decided that he would not be dependant on others anymore. He would fight his own battles, be his own saviour. He could rely on Yukino and Lector and Rogue whenever he needed to, but he was alone right now. Accepting that fact, Sting stared into the concealed faces of the five people who wished to do him harm, and silently willed himself to find a way out. 


	13. Maybe this Time Two Wrongs Make it Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idk what this chapter is, but it's been so long and I needed to post something so... here it is. Let me know if you think I'm pacing it too fast, or the characterisation is off? I was worried about both whilst writing this. Also, the pace will slow down a lot after this, with the next two or three chapters being continuations of one another, along the course of the same week. No more ungodly time jumps, I promise...
> 
> Thank you for your constant patience and support for this fic, I promise I won't give up on it until it is finished, but I honestly have no idea when I will update again. I had the rest of it planned out chapter by chapter, but due to the strange way this one turned out, everything else has been thrown off and I don't really know what to do now. This fic might end up being longer than I imagined, or maybe even a little bit short. I always wanted to stop at around 20 chapters, but we'll see.
> 
> Anyway, that's enough from me! My tumblr is @ice-bringer, and you all know that comments and criticisms are always welcome both on here and there. 
> 
> See you soon, hopefully!

“He's a stubborn one... it's kind of cute.” The woman identified as Black-widow grinned, fisting Sting's hair and letting her tongue dart out to lick underneath his ear. He shivered at the intrusion, but could not pull away due to the restrains of the snake. “Maybe I'll be the one to take him first.” She hummed.

The only one who had not spoke yet – a man just slightly shorter than Adder – grabbed her wrist and pulled her away.

“Not now, Widow-nee. We have to wait for the order from Master first.” His mask was white, with a red St. Andrew's cross stretching from the top of his eyebrow to the tip of his bottom lip, encompassing the left side of his face. His voice was deep, menacingly so, but his presence was soothing. If his sister was like a graze – stinging and upleasant – then he was the cool balm applied to ease the ache. Sting wasn't sure if he should trust this feeling or not, instead assessing what he knew about the group.

Adder was the leader, and most likely the strongest. He uses shadow magic, but isn't the type to command his friends. Probably weaker in hand-to-hand combat, and relies on his team to finish what he starts.

Bandit is his closest ally, and their magic complements each other. Can use binding snakes and possibly some other form of magic, likely to be something serpent related. Should not be underestimated.

Black-widow does not seem to have any special skills or weapons that make her especially dangerous, unless being insane could be counted. Judging by the manic way she moved, Sting thought it might have to. Her magic is unknown, and her status among the group is unclear. His guard should be up around her at all times, as she is volatile and unpredictable.

Her brother is the most calm and seemingly the least threatening. His name is unknown, as his is status among the group and his magic type. Although he appears placid, the lack of information makes him the most dangerous.

Sting takes a deep, shuddering breath through his nose before he meets their gaze again, each one individually. They all stared back, clearly waiting for what he would do next. If only Sting had though that far. Pushing himself up with his knee, Sting wobbles to his feet, the snake fighting to keeping him down. He needed to free himself from the binds before he can do anything more, but that would involve challenging Bandit one-on-one. If he tried that the other three would intervene, and he would not be able to take on all of them without his magic. First, he needed to divide them.

With a deep growl in his throat, Sting rushes forward and tackles Black-widow. She hisses, her nails digging into his back, no doubt drawing blood. Her hand fumbles in her pocket, producing a round pouch filled with liquid the same colours as her mask. The other three move in unison, and as Bandit draws near Sting swipes his leg out. Bandit barely dodges, his step faltering as he crashes into the large industrial waste bin.

That small gap in concentration is all Sting needs. He tears his arms out with the complete force of a dragon, and the binding snake explodes into a mess of red shards. The one around his mouth is still in tact, and Sting claws at it until it's writhing in his palms. He throws the snake, still in one complete piece, at Adder, and it circles his wrist gladly.

“Holy dragon's roar!” A simple attack that would not deplete much of his magic. It would allow him to assess the abilities of Black-widow and her brother, and give his body time to recover physically from their previous attacks. They all wince against the onslaught of light, Adder's cape is torn and Black-widow's neck stained with blood.

“Bandit!” Adder roared, and immediately the snake drops, slithering across the ground and up Bandit's leg. The four form a circle around Sting, eyeing him up with more of a fearsome glint to their eyes. For a minute, Sting was almost glad that he could not see their full features; it was clear that it was a small step from contempt to murderous rage among this group, and he knew with certainty that he had crossed that threshold.

“Here, Widow-nee.” The nameless brother passes his sister a small capsule, that she takes and gladly swallows. The blood from her neck starts to trickle upwards, towards the wound Sting had caused, and his mask makes sense to Sting. A red cross. He was a healer! Or at least, healing was one of the magics that he possessed. Remembering the fight he had witnessed between the god slayer from Lamia Scale and the dragon slayer from Fairy Tail at the Grand Magic Games, Sting knew better than to underestimate healers.

“Thank you, brother Hunter.” The small ball is still in her hands, and she hurls it at Sting. There's an explosion of pink and blue smoke, and Sting blinks in confusion.

It takes a moment before the pain hits him.

The pink smoke is like fire across his skin, and the blue smoke seeps into the wounds, making them crackle and hiss in the same way salt would. Sting screams in agony, his flesh bubbling in grotesque red welts. He falls to his knees, vomit rising his throat as the smell of his flesh reaches him.

“The pink extracts your sins, and the blue purifies. You must have been particularly bad for it have such an affect, you naughty boy.” She laughs, and Sting lurches forward in a blind rage, reason lost on him in the throes of pain.

The shadows seem to merge with the blanks in his vision, and suddenly Sting is engulfed in them. No matter how much light he produces, they never fully dissipate the shadows, and Sting feels like he is drowning in them, losing his will and his consciousness. He bites his lip hard, tasting the metallic of his own blood. It grounds him, reminds him that he is _alive_ and has to keep on fighting.

He doesn't have a chance.

“Shadow dragon's unholy chasm!”

The shadows that surround Sting now were different; warm and comforting, they protected as much as they offended, holding back the enemy and keeping Sting safe. It was obvious who they belonged to, and Sting felt relief and confusion in equal measures. Although he was glad of Rogue's intervention, he could not comprehend how Rogue had found him, how Rogue was always able to find him.

Once the fog of shadows had cleared slightly, Sting could see Adder and Bandit were unconscious, Black-widow pressed against the wall and Hunter grappling at the shadows around his throat that held him in place. Rogue was at the centre of the chaos, his forehead bleeding, mouth open and panting heavily.

“Sting...” His scarlet eyes, so ferocious when directed at the enemy, were filled with affection for him. Sting leant into Rogue and sighed in content, his wounds almost forgotten as the intense euphoria of winning a fight flooded his system. Rogue helped him to the end of the alley, jaw clenched and eyes still blazing with fury. A car was waiting, engine still humming. Sting eyed Rogue warily before jumping the passenger seat.

“Sting-sama!” Yukino's brown eyes were wide, her face pale. Sting reeled in shock.

“Yukino? What the hell are you doing here?” He asks incredulously.

“It's a long story... Rogue-sama was given the car from Rufus-sama to complete a job in the next city, and he wanted us to accompany him. We were coming to look for you when Rogue-sama caught the trail of your scent, and we found you here.”

“Right...” Sting trails off as he catches a glimpse of Rogue from the window. He's staring into the alley, nostrils flared and eyes villainous. He was so quiet, people often forgot how powerful Rogue could become, especially with the right incentive. Sting imagined that his life being in danger was just that.

The door to the driver side slams, and Rogue's grip on the wheel is almost criminal. He hanks the car into gear and slams his feet onto the pedals, jolting everyone forward. Sting puts his seat-belt on.

“Rogue...”

"Talk to me, Sting." Rogue growled. Sting recoiled from the noise, not used to seeing his friend this passionately furious outside of battle.

"W-what?"

"Talk to me, distract me, do _anything_ to prevent me from going back there and ripping those bastards to pieces!" Rogue slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, nostrils flaring and eyes shining a dangerous shade of red.

Yukino rested her hand gently on Rogue's forearm, and Sting watched the medicinal touch of the calming woman take affect on Rogue. He slumped in the seat, still breathing hard but brow far less furrowed.

"We didn't even get a glimpse of their faces." Sting reasoned quietly.

"Never underestimate the nose of a dragon."

Yukino laughed, but Rogue remained rigid. Sting saw it then, as clearly as the sun rose in the morning sky; the difference between Rogue and Yukino's love. How he was blind to it before, Sting did not know. But it was obvious to him now, and everything else- the men, his friends, this vehicle- fell away as he contemplated the two most important people in his life.

Rogue loved completely and ardently, without consideration of his own well-being. He would die for Sting, and he would kill for him. His life was pure, bred through years of friendship and passion which burnt so hot, Sting was still afraid to touch it.

On the other hand, Yukino's love was innocent. She would not die for Sting, but she was prepared to live for him, and had willingly given up so much in her life just to stay by his side. She was caring and nurturing to the extent where Sting almost considered her to be motherly, and he had to much to be grateful for that she had provided for him. He did not think he would ever truly repay her.

However, that did not change the fact that her love was incomplete. They both shared a secret, one which they had only spoken aloud once in their whole relationship. That secret was the reason why Sting's words bubbled in his throat and toppled out, and he allowed them to do so with ease.

"You really do love me, don't you Rogue?" Sting didn't mean to phrase it as a question, but still Rogue answered.

"Of course I do." He glanced to Sting from the corner of his eye, not as flustered or bashful as Sting had expected him to be, in fact Rogue was nothing except honest. It was Sting who found himself flushed and embarrassed.

“Rogue-sama, could you maybe drop me off at the edge of this street?” Yukino's voice seems to startle Rogue, and Sting realises that Rogue had forgotten her presence in the backseat.

“Yukino, I didn't mean-”

“It's okay, Rogue-sama. I understand.” She smiles sweetly, because she is Yukino and Sting knows she she would never respond in any other way. He feels guilty all of a sudden, as though he has betrayed her trust. Although that was ridiculous; she understands their arrangement as well as he does.

The car rolls to a halt. A thick, tense air settles between the three, and Sting can't work out why, but it makes him feel queasy.

“I'll call Fairy Tail and them to send Wendy-chan to your apartment, Rogue-sama. Make sure that Sting-sama is there for the rest of today. I'll also contact the army and make sure that the group of criminals are taken away.” With one final smile at Rogue and a deft kiss pressed to Sting's forehead, Yukino pushes open the car door and hops out gracefully

The door hasn't even clicked shut before Rogue groans, doubling forward and resting his head on the steering wheel, black hair covering the majority of his pale features. “I completely forgot that you two were dating. I'm so sorry, Sting.”

Sting laughs, earning a concerned look from Rogue. “I asked the question, didn't I? You did nothing wrong, Rogue. Thank you for answering so honestly.” Sting reaches over and rests his hand tentatively on the tense curve of Rogue's knee. Rogue looks shocked and averts his gaze, but says nothing to encourage or reprimand Sting.

Rogue's apartment was only three streets away now, and the streets seemed to get busier the closer they got. For someone to shy, it had never made sense for Rogue to live in the middle of the town.

They park the car and walk up the few steps that lead to Rogue's home. He unlocks the door and they go inside, not a syllable passing between them. Sting had visited Rogue almost every day for years, and was startled by the sudden realisation that the apprehension he was feeling was nothing more than nerves. Their relationship was shifting, and Sting wasn't sure what to or what it meant. But it was definitely different, there was no denying it. He had never felt nervous around Rogue before, not without reason.

“Do you need to bathe your wounds?” Rogue's voice cut through Sting's thoughts, and he jumps at the unintentionally intrusion.

“No! Yes! They... they do need to be washed. Sorry for the bother.” Sting looked to the left and to the right, anywhere but at Rogue's half-amused smirk.

Rogue opens the door to the kitchen, leaving Sting in the hallway.

“I'll get the hot water.”

“Yes!”

“You can move into the living room, if you want.”

“Yes!”

Mentally, Sting was reeling. He was acting no better than a school child around their first love! That fact alone was enough to send his heart into a dizzying frenzy. He kicked off his shoes and made his way into the main living area, where he sits straight, tense, waiting for Rogue to return.

It doesn't take long for Rogue to enter with a basin full of water, some medicinal remedies, a flannel and a towel. Sting feels a strange sense of dejavu to the night Rogue had found him in the bar, but he does not say anything. That was not an especially good night for either of them

“Sting, your shirt...” Rogue places the items on the table, and Sting nods stiffly.

“Right.” He pulls his shirt over his head, but the movement causes pain to shoot down his back, which is prolonged when his hair snags in his earring, and the garment becomes trapped.

“May I?”

Before Sting can respond in the affirmative or negative, Rogue's long, pale fingers, are already working the knot from Sting's hair, and it isn't long before his shirt finds itself on the floor. The cool air of Rogue's apartment against his bare chest causes his muscles to quiver and nipples to harden, and Sting prays to every god and goddess in the sky that Rogue does not notice. He does, of course, and his cheeks flush drastically, eyes gazing adamantly at the basin of water and nothing else. Rogue wets the cloth and wrings the excess from it. It's only when he starts to rub the warmth over Sting's skin that Sting realises something.

“Rogue, since when can you drive? Actually, since when can either of us stand to be in any kind of vehicle?” It was so obvious – blindingly so, in fact – that Sting feels like an idiot for not noticing sooner.

“Rufus started to give me lessons just after I came out of the hospital, and I took my test last month. He remembered that we suffer from motion sickness, so he had a magical barrier sealed around the car which invoked the spell of Troia for the people inside. That's why he lets me take his car on longer jobs, because that way we won't have to take the train.”

Last month... his best friend had been driving for over a month, and he didn't know a thing about it. Sting wasn't sure what that said about him, but he didn't think it was anything good.

“What made you want to learn?” Sting's voice hitched as Rogue ran the cloth over a particularly sore welt on his forearm. Rogue's look is apologetic, and he applies some ointment onto that patch directly before wringing out the cloth once again.

“Well, you suffer more with the motion sickness than I do, and I thought that if I knew how to drive it would make taking jobs easier for us, especially since Rufus guaranteed that we would not get travel sick.” Rogue's tone is bashful, a strand of hair twisting onto his forehead. When he reaches out to rub at Sting's shoulder, Sting grabs his wrist in protest. Rogue glances up, obviously worried that his reason was overstepping a line, but Sting's gaze is soft, and Rogue's body visibly relaxes.

Sting's hand moves to cradle Rogue's cheek, the other tucking the unruly strand of hair back behind his ear. His finger swipes affectionately over the scar on Rogue's nose, and Sting can't ignore the delicate way his heart hammers when Rogue's lips part and his eyes flutter shut.

“You do so much for me, Rogue. I don't think I'll ever deserve you.”

There's no hesitation in Sting's actions. He leans his face down and presses a small, deft kiss onto Rogue's forehead, so softly that he questions whether he even did it at all. But he knows that he did when Rogue's eyes fly open, wide and uncertain, brow tensed and mouth agape.

“Sting...” It's a question, and a prayer, and an exclamation of love. When Rogue whispers Sting's name, it's everything Sting hoped a lover would be; warm and adoring, tinged slightly with dormant desire. Sting shifts from the seat and onto the floor next to Rogue, both on their knees.

“I promised you that I would think about your feelings and give you a proper answer, and I think I'm ready for that now.”

Rogue nods, eyes closing again. His throat bobs, jaw clenches, whole body prepared to take the brute force of Sting's rejection. So when Sting clasps his hands around Rogue's and presses their foreheads together, the shocked gasp that tears itself from Rogue's parted lips is almost surreal.

“The truth is: I don't love you the way that you love me. But, Rogue, I think that I possibly could. Intimacy, it scares me, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to get better. I want to try, Rogue. I want to be there for you in the same way you are for me.”

“Sting... what are you saying? Please, don't talk in riddles. Tell me honestly what you want and where we stand.” Rogue's voice was tight, pained, like he didn't want to expect too much just to be disappointed.

“I'm not saying that we should date, just that we should spend some time together in more obviously non-friendly ways. I want to go on dates with you, Rogue. I want to hold your hand and spend time in your house like I used to. I just... I want to be with you, like we used to be, but different. Not dating... but not friends.” A frown lined Sting's forehead as he realises the incoherency of his words. Nonetheless, the smile that blooms from Rogue's features is breathtaking, and Sting pulls him into an embrace without thinking. The hot flush of Rogue's breath against his bare neck is pleasant, and Sting smiles into Rogue's loose ponytail.

“Shit!” Rogue jerks away, face contorting into a feature of pure horror.

Immediately, Sting panics. “What's wrong?”

“What about Yukino?”

Sting scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, a toothy grin threatening his lips. “She... kinda loves someone else.”

Rogue blinks once, twice, thrice, before a venemous glare takes a hold of him, and he pushes Sting against the settee. “You're telling me that you've been dating for months, knowing full well that it was never going to last between you?”

“Well, she thought that she was too insecure to be in a relationship, and I wanted to see if I could overcome my issues with intimacy, so it was really more of a mutually beneficial partnership than a real relationship, although I do love her very much.”

Huffing, Rogue folds his arms and sticks out his bottom lip. Sting laughs airily. “I don't really understand why you're mad about this, honestly.”

He sighs, rubbing a small circle into his temple. “I'm just frustrated. I've been avoiding you because I didn't especially want to spend time with you and your girlfriend, and it turns out you were never serious about her in the first place.”

Sting bumps their shoulders together, placing his arm loosely around Rogue's shoulder, who shyly reaches up to link their hands together. Sting squeezes happily, the grin he had tried so hard to suppress finally taking over.

“I just have to help Yukino get the person of her dreams now, that's all. Still, it worked out okay in the end.”

Rogue looks from their interlocked fingers, to Sting's naked chest, to his toothy, carefree smile.

“Yeah... it did.”

 


End file.
